by C. S. Quinn
Marc-Anthony was shaking his head. ‘You cannot get to the blacksmiths Charlie. Have you not heard? They have all left town.’
Charlie’s heart sank. ‘Every one of the blacksmiths has left?’
‘All Thames Street has been sealed off,’ said Marc-Anthony. ‘Plague has made it a ghetto. None are allowed in or out, and the blacksmiths are long gone.’
Charlie frowned, unwilling to give up.
‘It is a witch killing,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘Everything about the murder looked to be a sacrifice.’
‘A witch was recently released from Wapping prison,’ said Marc-Anthony thoughtfully. ‘There is much talk of it in the town. Perhaps there is your murderer.’
‘Perhaps. I think the murder is something to do with this.’ Charlie’s hand closed around the key at his neck. ‘The mark on the murdered girl. The brand. It was made in this shape.’
‘Sure but this could be good news for you. It might be a chance to discover where your key came from.’
Charlie laughed a little too loudly.
‘That is the stuff of orphan’s dreams,’ he said.
‘Yet that key must open something,’ said Marc-Anthony.
Charlie looked away. As a boy he had thought his mother might have left him the key to find him again. Women left all manner of strange objects in the hope of retrieving their babes once they had the means. Little pieces of fabric, paper scraps, sketches, marked coins, playing cards, charms, shoe buckles and clothes pegs were all part of the medley.
But it was equally possible he had found the key somewhere between being orphaned as a small boy and left with the nuns. After all, Rowan had nothing. It made no sense for a mother to give one child a memento and not the other.
Growing up, Charlie had made his own investigations. The key was some odd shape it transpired – double-sided and not like an English key at all. Rather than having one blade it fanned out like a pair of wings and looked suspiciously foreign to most Londoners.
Nor did it seem the right shape to fit any known lock. Too big for a chest and too small for a door. Even what the key might open was not apparent.
In his more honest moments Charlie acknowledged he kept a secret faith alive that working as a thief taker could one day lead him to some window of his past. A fact which Marc-Anthony was one of the few to discern.
‘I can ask Rowan,’ Charlie decided. His brother tended to know too much of London’s dark doings.
Marc-Anthony snorted. ‘Your brother? When has he ever helped you Charlie?’ he shook his head. ‘One brother catches thieves and the other gets away with murder. Is that not how it is?’
The bear howled as the first dog leapt, bit sharply into its chest and dropped back down to avoid the swinging paws. Rising on its haunches the bear launched forward, but the chain caught sharply. A second dog attacked from the side, drawing blood from the thick neck.
Charlie thought for a moment, trying to manoeuvre the facts. It was a theft of sorts, he reasoned. The girl’s life had been stolen.
He replayed the scene in his mind.
The coin eyes flashed at him. They had not been made by a coin house he recognised which was odd. He turned the fact over and logged it for later consideration.
Hawthorn on the body. The shrub grew in hedgerows all over London. It thrived mostly in Kings Cross. But hawthorn could have come from any part of the city.
The brand. That had been his greatest clue. If only the blacksmiths were still in London.
The crowd were baying for blood now, shouting for the bear and dogs alike. And the bear dropped back to all fours, eyeing the dogs warily. The snarling pack huddled together, then one pounced.
Like lightning the bear’s claw shot out. And suddenly the dog’s intestines lay outside the ring. In a flash a second dog lay disembowelled at the bear’s feet.
A great roar went up from the crowd. The canine bodies lolled glassy eyed, but only their owners showed any concern. Everyone else was waving and shouting.
‘I hear your Lynette made a visit to the Bucket of Blood,’ said Marc-Anthony, watching his face carefully. ‘You could ask her for help. She could shelter you, at least.’
‘She is not my Lynette.’
Marc-Anthony nodded tactfully. ‘You have both decided on it then? To say that your marriage never happened?’
Charlie nodded.
‘And she agreed to it?’
The two remaining dogs seemed to have lost their motivation for attack. Almost half-heartedly the first jumped to its death, eyes spinning in shock as the heavy paw thudded it back to the ground. The bear leaned down to rip out the throat of the stunned animal and then raised its bloody maw to issue a chilling growl. The last living dog whimpered and retreated. The crowd cheered.
‘We did once love each other, despite everything,’ said Charlie, ‘But I have come to the end of my patience with her.’
Charlie had a sudden image of his estranged wife, her eyes glittering, standing in the whirling centre of a storm of fights and bitter words.
He took in the expression on Marc-Anthony’s face and clarified slightly.
‘Of course I still have feelings for her,’ he said. ‘But she needs much money for her happiness.’
‘Do you still plan to open a gaming house?’
Charlie smiled. Marcus knew him well enough to take his ambition seriously. Most other people thought it a pipe-dream.
‘Plague times have set me back,’ admitted Charlie. ‘Perhaps, in two years, I shall have funds enough.’
‘It would be better to strike soon,’ observed Marc-Anthony. ‘Or others will discover the same cheap land as you and press their advantage.’
‘Plague slows all business the same,’ shrugged Charlie. Though he had been thinking the same thing himself. ‘Perhaps I shall come into a fortune.’
The key seemed warm against his skin suddenly.
‘You always were the very devil for good luck,’ agreed Marc-Anthony.
The bear-handler moved in, both arms raised aloft in triumph. Hands began to shoot up in the crowd, from those who had betted on the bear. The bookie strode amongst them, matching the memorised faces to the winnings owed.
‘You collect the winnings,’ said Charlie. ‘I do not wish to attract any more attention today.’
‘What do you mean to do?’
Charlie thought of what scant clues he had left.
In his experience, the best way to catch a man was not to go where he had been. It was to predict his next move and arrive there before him.
‘What do you know of witches and their spells?’ he asked Marcus.
‘Not much.’
‘They call the corners,’ do they not? Charlie urged forth a childhood memory. ‘Hail to the spirits of the north. Spirits of mother and earth,’ is that not how it goes?
Marc-Anthony was looking at him strangely.
‘It was a play chant, was it not?’ asked Charlie. ‘The kind of thing children sang.’
‘I know not what songs were sung at the Foundling Hospital,’ said Marc-Anthony. ‘But I never sang that as a child.’
‘Before the Foundling Hospital, I think we sang it,’ said Charlie. ‘Witches call each corner. North, East, South and West. Such are spells made.’
Marc-Anthony frowned. ‘This is the power ritual of witches,’ he said. ‘But it would be strange to hear on a child’s lips.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Are you sure you were not secretly raised to the dark arts? It would explain how you find villains so easily.’
The look on Charlie’s face told him instantly it had been a joke too far.
‘But you would need four witches,’ Marc-Anthony added quickly. ‘One to hold each corner.’
Unless . . .
‘Witches use death magic, do they not?’ asked Charlie. ‘They believe it is all powerful.’
Marcus nodded. ‘They are greatly feared for it.’
Charlie pictured the dead girl.
The hawthorn. It was suddenly takin
g on a new meaning. Hawthorn grew in the ground. In the earth.
He brought Maria’s house to mind. Her front door faced away from the river. Towards the north.
Something else was urging forward too. He suddenly knew what had been missing from the murder scene.
The other elements.
Charlie had seen witch spells before. Before Cromwell began hanging witches in earnest, it was common to see a ritual scratched in the dirt, to protect a home or reverse a fever.
But pagan spells always represented all four elements.
The killer had only used one.
‘I think the killer calls the corners,’ said Charlie slowly. ‘But one by one. North for earth.’
‘What do you mean Charlie?’
‘I mean, I think the murderer makes a master spell. But he uses death, to mark the corners.’
The facts were ordering themselves now. And Charlie had a feeling. The same he always got, when a case was starting to open itself to investigation.
‘Why do you think so?’ asked Marc-Anthony.
‘Maria’s Holbourne house was north for earth,’ said Charlie. ‘Her sister had been bound in hawthorn, to represent the element.’
Marc-Anthony shrugged. ‘It seems a leap.’
Charlie’s eyes flashed. ‘Call it a thief taker’s intuition.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And besides,’ he admitted, ‘it is the best theory I have. I can hardly go back to the scene and gather more information.’
Charlie’s face was grim. ‘If I am right, then he must make the other corners,’ he said. ‘He would need four deaths, to complete his spell. Though what he hopes to conjure, I know not.’
White ribbons. Candlewax. He returns.
He turned to Marc-Anthony.
‘What comes after north for earth? It is east, is it not?’
Marc-Anthony nodded. ‘East for air.’
Air. Charlie’s mind raced over what might be needed for such a ritual.
Feathers. Birds.
‘I will go to the bird market,’ decided Charlie. ‘I know people there. Someone might tell me something. Perhaps they even sold feathers for spells, before it became too dangerous.’
‘Your Health Certificate is not good enough to get you into that part of London,’ said Marc-Anthony. ‘If you try a forgery in Regent’s Park you’ll be arrested.’
‘Perhaps the checks are not so strict everywhere,’ said Charlie, sounding more confident than he felt.
‘But how will you get back into the west?’ asked Marc-Anthony. ‘Every gate will be guarded now. You’ll be arrested the moment you step across London Wall.’
Charlie gave Marcus a hopeful smile. ‘I need to borrow your boat.’
Chapter Thirteen
Charlie rowed the boat carefully away from Blackfriars slums.
The slum was the only part of London where even mercenaries would not venture. Squalor and desperation was such that residents would slit a throat for a halfpenny. Blackfriars operated as its own lawless hell, and no sane man ventured beyond the outlying filthy refuse which delineated its borders.
Keeping a careful eye on the bank Charlie rowed on, past the public boat-docking steps at the Strand and Charing Cross.
Slum-dwellers sometimes swum out and stole boats from solo rowers, and he couldn’t risk Marc-Anthony’s craft.
The Thames was London’s lifeblood, and every citizen depended on river water to drink, cook and wash with. But for slum dwellers it was also their trade.
He docked at Horseferry, handing a penny to the waterman to guard the row-boat. Then he set off north.
The bird market was unusually subdued as Charlie approached. Around half the stalls were absent, and those who still traded held only a few birds.
He passed a wooden cage, which held a handful of twittering starlings. The birds were caught in Hyde Park, and when he and Lynette had first fallen in love Charlie had bought her a starling, so they might free it together.
Lynette had wanted to keep the creature. He should have known then.
Halfway along the dirt-track market was a wooden desk with an officious-looking clerk behind it and two heavy-set guards.
Charlie swallowed. The clerk was scrutinising each Health Certificate, comparing each stamp carefully.
To get to the rest of the bird sellers he needed to pass through.
Charlie’s hand slid to his coat. Here the checks were far more thorough than in the East. The name on his certificate was false. He had to hope his description hadn’t been circulated to the guards.
‘Psst!’
A sudden noise drew his attention. He cast around in confusion and then he saw the source.
At a nearby stall Charlie spotted someone he recognised, a fellow ex-foundling. Changing direction he made for the familiar face.
‘Oliver!’ He began to raise his hand in salutation, but his old friend shook his head.
Confused, Charlie drew closer.
‘What are you doing here Charlie?’ hissed Oliver in a whisper. ‘Do you not know you are a wanted man?’
‘What?’
‘It is all over London,’ said Oliver. His stall held a few pitiful cages, and he settled himself down onto his haunches in the dust, gesturing Charlie did the same.
‘The Mayor himself has got funds from the King to bring you in,’ Oliver explained.
Charlie felt his stomach plummet in fear.
‘They say you are connected to a witch-murder,’ continued Oliver. ‘And they are careful to put down such things quickly, for you remember how things were with Cromwell.’
‘I am innocent,’ said Charlie. ‘You do know I am innocent?’
‘Of course.’ Oliver rested a hand briefly on his forearm. ‘But your description has been put about at every checkpoint in the city.’ He shook his head. ‘It is a shame you are so good at your thief-taking Charlie. Many know your face. And with the fear of witches and plague in the city they will not hesitate to turn you in.’
Oliver glanced about nervously. ‘This part of town is worst of all for dark rumours,’ he said. ‘The physicians are here, and they are all in fear. They say something is happening with the bodies.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Bodies are not being buried where they should be. And some of the physicians say there are more bodies than dead people. They think something dark has come to London,’ he added.
‘Oliver,’ said Charlie, keeping his voice in a low whisper. ‘I am trying to clear my name. So I am come for information.’ He hesitated, thinking of the easiest way to phrase his question.
‘Would a witch buy feathers for a spell?’ he asked finally, opting for the most straight-forward question.
Oliver frowned.
‘Some silly girls did come for dove feathers and the like,’ he said. ‘But that was long ago. No woman should risk her neck for a love spell.’
‘What of . . . A different spell?’ pressed Charlie. ‘A dark magic?’
Oliver visibly shuddered.
‘Think you such a thing takes place in the City?’
‘Perhaps,’ admitted Charlie.
‘Then they would not use feathers from the bird market,’ replied Oliver with certainty. ‘They would use an evil bird. A rook or a raven. We do not sell such things’
Charlie felt disappointment run through him.
‘People used to buy ravens to clip their wings and leave them at the Tower of London,’ continued Oliver. ‘But no one bird seller will keep ravens since the plague. They are a bad omen. And unless you are allowed in the Tower,’ he added, ‘You cannot keep a raven in the city.’
‘Why not?’ Charlie couldn’t imagine why the bird couldn’t stay hidden.
‘They are not like a starling or a nightingale Charlie. Ravens make a horrendous noise. When you cage them, they are loud enough to raise the dead. And you must know they are terrible luck. A neighbour would hear and make some complaint if you kept one.’
Charlie considered this.
‘Y
ou must beware, if it is dark magic you track,’ warned Oliver. ‘There is all talk from the astrologers that some evil thing has arisen,’ said Oliver. ‘Signs and portents have been seen. Comets. Things of that kind.’
He squinted up into the summer sunshine.
‘London is an ancient city,’ he added. ‘She holds bound in her belly the bones of giants and her soul is of old magic. Some wicked thing is abroad with this plague Charlie, all of us feel it. Perhaps something terrible has arisen with the King’s return. A long-sleeping demon awoken and now stalking among us.’
Charlie considered this. Many peasants and poorer sorts turned to witchcraft for treatment. Particularly now plague made them desperate.
He thought of Maria and her country family and their dislike of doctors. Perhaps they were backwards enough to visit a witch.
Beside him he felt Oliver tense suddenly.
‘There are two vigilantes at the checkpoint,’ he hissed. ‘And one is looking straight at you.’
Charlie looked up. His gaze met with a notorious hired thug. And as their eyes locked he knew they were here for him.
His heart sank.
Jack Tanner was the most brutal and determined tracker in the city. In an instant the many hiding places usually available to him evaporated. Jack would know them all.
There was only one place in the City too dangerous for the men to follow him. Crossing himself Charlie leapt to his feet and set off at a run for Blackfriars slum.
Chapter Fourteen
The knock sounded, and Antoinette trooped obediently downstairs to meet Thomas. For five years he had paid for her modest room in a good part of the city. In return she was available when he wanted to indulge his strange sexual demands.
She caught sight of her reflection in the glass near the door. The once beautiful face had aged rapidly on its daily diet of London living, but she still commanded enough of her youthful looks to be attractive.
Antoinette was a London cliché. She had been a country girl, come to the city to find maid’s work and fallen for the wiles of one of the many London madams who lay in wait for the stage-coaches arriving from the provinces.