by C. S. Quinn
Sophie sometimes worked at Adders Club. And the furious owner had sent her to discover why Antoinette was absent from work.
‘Antoinette?’
A little stab of fear shot through her. If her friend had been burgled the men might still be in the house.
‘Antoinette?’
Sophie moved up the stairs. All about were black feathers. She paused to pick one up. It was bloodied, she realised, dropping it in horror.
The feather floated downwards. Blood was all over the stair. She was standing in it.
Drawing her feet back in alarm Sophie cast about for the source. Her eyes settled on a sad feathered lump at the entrance to the bedroom. She swallowed. A dead raven had been mangled to a sad pulp.
Sophie felt her stomach turn. Antoinette had told her that her keeper was a man of bizarre tastes.
She had a powerful urge to turn and run. But the idea of explaining her behaviour to Mr Adders pushed her forward.
Sophie stepped slowly up, over the dead bird and into the room.
A single candle was guttering to an end. The final sizzle of wax gave out a thin and narrow light.
Antoinette’s bedroom dipped in and out of shadow.
Sophie noticed in the flickering candlelight that her friend’s new red dress was hanging from the top of the four poster bed.
The flame flickered, spat and went out, leaving the room in darkness.
Sophie started. For a split second she had seen a ghostly face, its eyes glued shut with tears of blood.
She shuddered and shook herself. Too many Civil War ghosts, she told herself, drawing her tinderbox with a shaking hand. They were all the old Londoners talked about and soon she would be just the same.
Sophie fumbled in the dark for a fresh candle from the supply she knew was kept on dresser.
The tinderbox flared.
Antoinette’s face blazed into view.
Sophie’s first sound came out choking, barely audible. Then she opened her mouth and screamed louder than all the tolling dead bells in the city.
In the shadowing candlelight Antoinette’s body swung back and forth, her bloody feathers fluttering in the evening breeze.
Chapter Eighteen
Blackstone regarded the outside of the building.
Apart from a discreet sign announcing ‘Adders Gaming Club’, it looked like any other wealthy residence.
‘Looks ordinary does it not?’ said the Mayor, echoing his thoughts. ‘Who would guess at the world of sin behind this smart door? Still we are here to shut ’em down and that’s the main thing.’
‘You are certain,’ said Blackstone carefully, ‘you wish to attend this business in person?’
Mayor Lawrence shot him a sharp look.
‘I mean to say,’ countered Blackstone quickly. ‘You have so many important duties to attend to.’
‘None more important than stamping out vice Mr Blackstone,’ said Lawrence pompously. ‘You must be guided by my great knowledge of these delicate situations.’
Blackstone said nothing. Lawrence’s motives were pitifully transparent. He had decided to accompany his aide only after discovering the kind of girls Adders Club employed.
Mayor Lawrence brushed an uncomfortable hand over the red curls of his head.
‘It is a pity we had to burn the wigs,’ he murmured. ‘I should have liked to make this business properly attired.’
‘Better to go bare-headed than plague-ridden,’ Blackstone assured him. ‘I am sure if Mr Adders has any sense he will have done likewise.’
Lawrence grunted in response and knocked on the door self-importantly.
To their surprise it was not a servant but William Adders himself who opened the door of the club to them.
The gambling den master was dressed in his usual immaculate suit of a gold-stitched waistcoat and deep-burgundy frock coat. A froth of snow-white silk gathered in tumbling folds at his neck.
William Adders ran the city’s most exclusive and notorious gambling club. It had been founded last year by a group of fantastically wealthy noblemen. And the club permitted entry only to London’s most dedicated high-rollers.
‘My Lord Mayor,’ Adders bowed very low. ‘And Mr Blackstone. Please forgive my bare hair. We burned all the wigs only yesterday.’
He tipped his hand just a fraction, towards his brown curly hair, which was neatly combed, but minus its usual stricture of a wig. Without the dark curls he looked younger, and his features were even more fox-like.
Lawrence made a poor job of concealing his delight.
‘The most sensible men go bare-headed,’ he assured Adders. ‘I hope also you consigned your quill pens to the bonfire. For feathers too may hide distemper.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed William. ‘Even my fine feather bed was sent to the pyre.’
He eyed the two men for a moment.
‘Please,’ he added. ‘Follow me. It is better we speak inside.’ And he turned gracefully on the perfect heel of his leather shoe.
Neither man had expected to be led inside the club, and Blackstone half thought the Mayor would refuse to go in. But it seemed Lawrence was as curious as he to see inside the notorious gambling club.
‘I assume you are here because of Antoinette’s murder,’ continued William. ‘News travels fast. I only just heard of it myself.’
Blackstone and Lawrence looked at each other. They had no idea what he was talking about.
Though Blackstone knew the girl he was referring to, and a cold chill swept through him. As a man of the city he knew and liked Antoinette. She was a kept mistress and occasional prostitute when the price was right.
With plague bodies mounting up they had enough terrible things to contend with. The current rumour was that the nurses hired by City Hall were murdering the plague sufferers they should be caring for and robbing the corpses.
They followed William as he led them through a hallway lined with dishes of marzipan fruits and colourful meringues.
Beneath their feet the floor was marble, Blackstone noticed. One square foot alone would have been enough to pay for three new plague pits.
The hallway opened into the dazzling light of a magnificent room. More chandeliers than Blackstone had seen in his entire life were burning as one. He calculated the City Hall annual candle bill would not be enough to fill a single round of so many glittering crystal holders.
Huge curtains of heavy silk covered the large windows, giving the room a night-time feel, despite it being a hot summer’s afternoon.
Blackstone took in the sweep of artfully arranged walnut tables laid out in the enormous room. They were sized varyingly to accommodate different groups of gamblers, with the plush seats of the largest running to forty.
Each table had its own thick candles and a leather-bound book for logging bets. Adders was arranged on credit, Blackstone assumed. That was the thing with aristocrats. Their name was all they needed.
Today, only one group of gamblers was evident. Five men, each wearing a frock coat with silk enough to buy and sell Blackstone several times over, looking weary.
Servants fluttered around the gamblers like birds, trimming wicks and pouring wine.
‘Please sit.’ William gestured them to be seated on a sumptuous velvet coach at the edge of the room. A cherub-faced girl in a low-cut dress placed wine glasses and a china plate of confections on the table in front of them.
‘Our wine is imported from Champagne,’ said William, as the girl poured three glasses. ‘And we have these chestnut biscuits made by the King’s own patisserie. You’ll find the two complement each other perfectly.’
Mayor Lawrence took a sip of wine and a clumsy mouthful of crumbling biscuit.
His eyes roamed the room, searching for the girls which Adders was famed for. Finding none he swallowed disappointedly and coughed, signalling it was time for business.
‘We are here to demand that you close your doors,’ he said. ‘With plague so high we must shut down establishments where men mix in g
reat numbers.’
William’s brow crumpled in puzzlement.
‘Surely you have heard?’ he asked incredulously. ‘One of my best girls has been found murdered.’
‘No,’ said Mayor Lawrence, choosing to bluster rather than admit his ignorance. ‘The City Hall is not here to help with your domestic troubles. We have come to ensure you present no danger of spreading plague.’
William raised a sad eyebrow. ‘If that is all your business then the thing is already done,’ he said. ‘Most of our customers have fled to their country houses. We already plan to close.’
Mayor Lawrence nodded as though he had forced the decision himself.
‘See that you do,’ he said, unable to resist issuing an order. And he began heaving himself up from the couch.
‘Wait.’ Blackstone couldn’t help himself. He had liked Antoinette. ‘What is the situation with your murdered girl?’
William sighed. ‘She was one of our best,’ he said. ‘Another girl found her dead. She had been strung up by a rosary, and her guts were cut out. I assume it was some reference to my being a Catholic.’
Blackstone considered this. He hadn’t known Adders was Catholic. Certainly the gambling master hid his religion well. Catholics were very unpopular, since the last King had been executed.
‘And the monster had branded her with some symbol,’ added William.
Mayor Lawrence froze.
‘What kind of symbol?’
William drew out a piece of paper. ‘I had it drawn,’ he said, ‘so I might better find her killer. For believe it when I find him he will suffer.’
He unfolded the page to reveal a crown with a loop of knots underneath.
Lawrence snatched it. ‘You are quite sure?’ he said. ‘This was found on the body?’
Adders nodded. ‘Burned into her flesh,’ he said. ‘I assume the deed was a message from a rival club. I am yet to discover what they mean by the symbol.’
Lawrence was opening and shutting his mouth like a fish.
‘There was another girl killed with the same mark on her. We think the crime involves a local thief taker, by the name of Charlie Tuesday.’
Now it was William’s turn to gape. ‘You are quite sure?’
‘We have the King’s authority to hunt him,’ said Lawrence. ‘The man carries on him a key with the branded symbol at the head.’
‘Has he been arrested?’
‘He has evaded capture. We have put guards and a few vigilantes to the task and expect to find him soon.’
William was shaking his head. ‘Guards? In a plague city? If this man is a thief taker he will run rings around them.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I will send my men to find him.’
Blackstone swallowed, thinking of the kind of men who were employed as William’s security. The men had been employed as torturers by Cromwell.
‘Perhaps we are best leaving things to the guards,’ he said.
‘My girls are important to business,’ said William. ‘Our policy is to put down hard anyone who would hurt them. What do you know of this thief taker?’
‘We have gathered what we could from our informants in the City,’ said Lawrence. ‘Blackstone personally visited the Foundling Hospital where the man was orphaned.’
Lawrence glanced at Blackstone to confirm he had permission to relay his findings.
‘He was raised by nuns,’ said Blackstone. ‘Most spoke of him as a good and gentle boy.’
‘But one nun saw his true nature,’ interrupted Lawrence, ‘A lady by the name of Sister Agnes confirmed that he had consorted with whores from a young age. She thinks it likely twisted him. All that beauty paraded before him, but his lowly wage ensuring he might never enjoy it. We also know that his wife left him earlier this year to become an actress. Perhaps that was what finally charged his mind to revenge against women.’
‘He is an orphan then?’ asked William, quietly assessing.
‘He has a brother,’ said Lawrence. ‘Both boys were committed as foundlings. Something strange in them,’ he added. ‘The nuns say both the boys could speak fluent Dutch when they were taken in.’ He nodded as though the curiosity were a vital clue to the thief taker’s deadly nature.
‘Where was his brother seen last?
Lawrence shrugged. ‘The brother is a petty criminal of sorts. He was last seen selling quack cures near Moor Fields.’
‘And the brother has been questioned strongly?’
Lawrence shook his head. ‘Our work is not to find murderers Mr Adders. ‘At present all of our resources go to finding men and women willing to work as nurses and gravediggers. Most of those mad enough to take the first shift have died. And you can well imagine the type of person who will risk a plague death for a shilling a week. The city is staffed by desperate criminals, and we run short even of those. As their employers and their undertakers our work is constant,’ he added.
‘Then there is talk of the King leaving town,’ Lawrence was on a roll now. ‘If Charles deserts us the people will panic, and the streets will turn to anarchy.’
Blackstone thought of the King recognising the strange symbol. Now another girl had been murdered. Perhaps he should share his thoughts with the Mayor.
William nodded. Then he knocked on the table with the palm of his hand. Almost instantly an impossibly beautiful girl appeared.
Blackstone’s eyes slid to the Mayor. Lawrence’s tongue had crept out of the corner of his mouth, and he was staring unapologetically at the full breasts pressed upwards from the girl’s tight dress.
‘Have Jack and Robert come up with two chests from the storeroom,’ said William. The girl nodded and then vanished in a waft of rosewater perfume.
‘I will see to it that the brother is questioned,’ said William. ‘If he knows where this thief taker is then it will be found out.’
Two men arrived, each dragging with them a heavy chest.
They wore the Adders livery, but it strained against their bulk. Blackstone recognised the cruel features of both men from Cromwell’s prison.
They men stopped by William, leaving the chests in front of him.
The gambling master leaned forward and flung them both open.
Both were filled to the brim with pure gold coin.
Mayor Lawrence leaned forward. It was a great deal more money than either official would earn in their entire lives.
‘One of these chests shall go to your recruitment of watchers and nurses,’ said William. ‘And the other shall go to finding out this Charlie Tuesday. And believe it gentlemen, he shall be questioned to the utmost of my men’s powers.’
Chapter Nineteen
Charlie passed from dense streets to the wide expanse of Moor Fields. In the cloying summer heat the green moors had turned to yellow hay.
This was where London’s laundry women usually laboured away in the sweltering sun, manhandling cumbersome water butts and pounding clothing.
But since wealthy households had left London the fields were now mostly filled with a carnival influx of stands and handwritten banners.
Chemists, apothecaries and quack doctors had crowded in with their pitches and were vying enthusiastically to sell plague cures.
Charlie caught sight of his brother. Rowan was barefoot but wearing a battered tricorn hat and standing by his own small stall of remedies.
As he drew closer he heard his brother’s familiar voice shouting out a sales patter.
‘Good people! The plague is one of the easiest diseases in the world to be cured. Take this physic within four hours of the first invasion and it will drive out the distemper before it can take a hold!’
The key had always separated them, even as boys. And sometimes Charlie thought that the resentment struck deeper than he realised. Rowan had always preferred to wallow in his abandonment rather than make a real attempt at fending for himself. He oscillated from tavern to money-making scheme, borrowing cash from whoever would lend it and bleeding dry any woman unfortunate enough to fall for his char
m.
Rowan was similar in appearance to Charlie, with the large brown eyes, rounded nose and dark eyebrows which tapered expressively around the full arch of his sockets. But his dense hair sprang chestnut brown rather than dark blonde. He had not shaved the thick crop but let it grow long to conceal where he’d lost an ear in a knife attack.
Charlie had for a time covered his own dusty-blonde hair beneath a wide-brimmed hat, which he’d found only slightly damaged in a gutter. He fancied the headgear had given his soulful eyes a gentlemanly quality. But the headgear attracted fleas and he preferred going bare-headed than itchy.
‘Charlie!’ Rowan hopped down from his little stand.
Charlie smiled slightly as his brother slapped his shoulder.
‘I’m in trouble,’ admitted Charlie, speaking in Dutch, the code language they had used since they were children.
Understanding immediately, Rowan gestured they should step back from the main drag.
‘I heard you and Lynette have parted ways,’ he said, as they moved away from the crowds.
Charlie nodded.
‘She’ll come back for you and fool you again,’ said his brother. ‘Once a whore always a whore.’ Charlie flinched. Rowan and Lynette had always hated each other.
‘It is not Lynette that is the trouble,’ said Charlie continuing to speak in Dutch, though they were now out of earshot.
He quickly outlined his status as a wanted man.
‘So it is finally you who comes for my help,’ said Rowan with a little smile.
Charlie nodded. ‘I have no Health Certificate, and I need to move around the city to gather information.’
‘I would give you the one you gave me, but I sold it last week,’ admitted Rowan with a shrug. Then catching his brother’s expression he added, ‘You need not fear for me. This a good place for selling. People come from all over London for remedies, and the laundry women are always looking for fresh piss no matter how slow their trade is. That one pays me a groat a day to fill her barrel.’
He gestured with the cone of paper he held for the purposes of broadcasting a sales pitch to the wider audience of Moor Fields.