The Thief Taker

by C. S. Quinn

  ‘She put us safe,’ said Charlie. ‘At the Foundling Hospital.’

  ‘Such is maternal love,’ said Malvern.

  Charlie stared into the crystal goggles and Malvern’s mask tilted back, assessing the man before him.

  ‘See we are not so different you and I,’ he said. ‘If I told you what the soldiers did to my mother it would sicken you to your stomach. In comparison Sally Oakley had a merciful end. So we are the same, Charlie Oakley, in our malice at least.’

  Their eyes locked.

  ‘Perhaps in our malice we are,’ said Charlie. He felt cold everywhere.

  Part of him had always known that his mother must be dead. But something inside of him had broken and in its place an empty leaden despair rushed in. He wanted to crawl away and turn the hurt around in his mind. The anger which swam in the background of his life now had a firm direction. Thomas Malvern. Its intensity frightened him.

  The only possibility for revenge stood close. The birdcage. He could set free the messengers and wreck Malvern’s plans.

  He inched closer towards the caged birds, mentally calculating the fastest way to free them.

  Malvern took a step towards him. ‘Do not imagine I am so foolish that I do not see what you do,’ he said. ‘I will sever your arm from your body before I allow you to release those birds.’

  A sudden noise caused them both to turn. It was Maria. She had staggered to her feet and was walking towards Malvern.

  As she moved into a shaft of moonlight the rash of veins on her neck and face came into stark relief. Her breathing was ragged and laboured.

  Despite the protection of his plague-doctor costume Malvern stepped back uncertainly. His gloved hands fumbled to aim the pistol, but Maria was on him before he could fire. Reaching up with her bound hands she pulled away his mask. Malvern’s disguise fell away, revealing the blue eyes, the black hair.

  The mouth gaped in shock as Maria spat in his eye.

  Beneath the hood was the Mayor’s aide. Thomas Blackstone.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Blackstone fell down, clawing to wipe his face, and Maria turned to Charlie.

  ‘Now!’ she shouted. ‘Set free the birds.’

  Faltering in the unexpectedness of the moment Charlie paused for a second, and then he dived towards the cage and unhooked the catch.

  A gunshot followed a moment later, causing the birds inside to tunnel out in alarm.

  They swarmed up in a great mass of feathers and up into the sky.

  ‘No!’ Blackstone ran at the escaping birds, but they were too quick for him. Like a great grey cloud they winged away in one mass, far into the night.

  Charlie looked back to where Maria had been.

  She was no longer standing, but had fallen back. A plume of red was spreading out across her white shift. He ran to where she was.

  ‘It was a mercy Charlie,’ she said, as he tumbled to the ground beside her. ‘I would rather go this way than the other.’

  Behind him he heard Blackstone race to the open cage and pull frantically at it, searching for any remaining occupants.

  He let out a sudden howl of elation and Charlie turned with a sinking heart. A flutter of wings confirmed his fears. One single pigeon was huddled in the back of the cage, too terrified to take flight. Blackstone slammed the little door closed, securing the bird.

  Maria’s hand slid from Charlie’s. He saw the blood pumping from her chest slow and then stop.

  ‘No.’

  He turned her head up to face him, but the deeper he stared into her eyes the further she went. As Maria slipped away from him memories of her clustered thickly in his mind. But then there were images of his orphaned childhood in the Foundling Home. Watching his brother grow thinner by the day and of dead children in the bed.

  ‘Please Maria.’

  He thought he saw something. A final glimmer. Then her eyes closed and she was gone. Only his black anger remained.

  He stood to face Blackstone and the words came choking out.

  ‘You murdered my mother.’

  The swell of his fury was so immense his words came out in gasps.

  Charlie strode towards Blackstone.

  Recognising the expression from the battlefield Blackstone’s face set itself. He drew his sword. ‘Do not think that a thousand such have not run at me in war,’ he said. But something of his earlier confidence had waned just a little.

  ‘Eight years, my brother and I starved as orphans,’ said Charlie.

  Without breaking his stride he picked up a branch from the ground and hefted it.

  Blackstone swung his sword easily to use the handle for a club.

  They neared each other, the barefooted stick-wielder and the armed Cavalier. Then Charlie struck out in a wave of fury.

  The stick came down and Blackstone staggered back. Then he heaved the full weight of the sword hilt.

  Charlie moved only just in time. The sword missed his skull but connected with full force into his shoulder.

  He felt his shoulder wrench free from the socket and his body lift from the ground. The blow threw him several feet and he landed heavily in the open plague grave.

  Blackstone’s smile flickered for a moment. With the calculation of an experienced soldier he looked down to check his opponent was no longer a threat and then he walked to where his pigeons were held.

  He removed the last cooing occupant and, stroking her head tenderly, attached a message to the leg.

  ‘This goes to the Palace,’ he said, ‘and announces from the Mayor where plague spreads to in the City. Once that is done every wealthy gaming house in London will spread my counterfeit coins.’

  Blackstone threw his hands apart and watched the pigeon wing up unsteadily into the air.

  Charlie watched it with a sinking heart.

  Returning to the open grave Blackstone leaned over. ‘You see now the thing is done,’ he explained. ‘The message is sent and the King will soon realise the price of his betrayal.’

  Charlie became aware of a new sensation. Something was digging into his back. It was the rabbit gun.

  He had forgotten that he had left it in the grave, earlier.

  Painstakingly Charlie worked his hand underneath until his fingers closed around the weapon. He could not kill Blackstone, he knew. But he could hurt him. Injure him. The thought brought a bitter sort of strength.

  Blackstone blinked suddenly, realising he was looking into the barrel of the gun. He suppressed a smile. Perhaps the boy carried the weapon as a boast. But he knew nothing about arms. He held a rabbit gun. Likely it would not even fire in the damp air.

  Above them the white belly of the pigeon winged away into the sky. And Malvern knew his plans were unassailable.

  ‘Then kill me,’ he said, playing to the boy’s ignorance. ‘Have your revenge. We are the same you and I. Both of us were betrayed and made orphans. Both of us seek revenge on those who have wronged us.’

  Charlie couldn’t see Maria’s body, but an image of her face came to him. Instead of the white fright of her dying, the features were calm. Some of his anger abated.

  Blackstone caught the emotion. It was too ridiculous. The boy was afraid to pull the trigger. Given the chance to avenge himself on the man who had killed his mother he was now uncertain. This was why the uprising would succeed. Because men like himself would not falter.

  ‘Your mother would have not liked to see her son so weak,’ he said, making to walk from the grave. He caught a glimpse of Charlie’s expression hardening and paused for a moment. Perhaps the boy really would chance his immortal soul by attempting to commit murder. And it would be worth watching his face when the gun didn’t work as he hoped.

  From the depths of the grave Charlie felt the monster inside him stir.

  ‘You may think me weak, but I am stronger than you,’ he said.

  Blackstone gave a cold smile. ‘You do not know what strength is. You Protestants think yourselves strong in number, but that is nothing to a man p
repared to defend his religion with his life.’

  ‘It is not to do with numbers or force,’ said Charlie. ‘I am stronger than you because I do not need revenge.’

  And he pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  The gun exploded, blinding Charlie in a cloud of gunpowder and pressing him down into the pit.

  At the edge of the grave he saw Blackstone start at the gunshot and step back. And then to Charlie’s great relief the last messenger pigeon fell to the ground. He had not known how high the gun might fire. But the glimpse of white wing overhead had convinced him the spray of shot might hit its mark. A comforting plume of feathers floated down towards him.

  Charlie had no idea what had caused Malvern to move away. He closed his eyes, awaiting the violent retribution.

  It never came. Instead a figure appeared, white like an angel.

  He blinked in disbelief as it hovered at the edge of the pit, ghostly pale in the moonlight. The gunshot had set a ringing in his ears.

  Charlie stared up, squinting his eyes to better see the celestial shape.

  ‘You had best get up and out of that grave,’ it said in a surprisingly familiar voice.

  ‘Maria?’ His voice was half choked with shock.

  ‘Who else would it be?’

  Easing himself up Charlie clambered from the pit. He grabbed her shoulders and then wrapped both arms around her. She was warm and solid. Charlie drew back to look in her face.

  ‘I cannot believe it is you.’

  ‘Why Charlie?’

  ‘You were shot,’ he said. ‘And infected with plague.’

  Maria smiled. ‘It was just a little bee’s wax and berry juice. A cosmetic I carry.’

  She raised her hand and rubbed at one of the marks on her neck. Then she held out her reddened hand to show him.

  ‘I have it to make my lips look pretty. And it was more useful than a knife after all,’ she added, more to herself.

  Maria tilted her head to look up at him. ‘Were it daylight that feint would never have worked. But by candle and moonlight they looked real enough. It was enough to fool Blackstone,’ she added, ‘and frighten him away from hurting me.’

  ‘Why not tell me then?’ he demanded. ‘I thought you had plague Maria. I thought . . .’

  He stopped himself from relaying the tumult of fright she had caused.

  ‘I knew you would waste time untying me,’ Maria said simply. ‘I thought your labours better spent stopping the pigeons.’

  ‘Blackstone shot you,’ Charlie accused, ‘I saw you die.’

  Maria shook her head and tapped on her chest. ‘It did not hit me full force, for I was turned away from it. And the shot did not penetrate far where it struck.’

  She knocked on her thick reed bodice. ‘And you say such fashions are foolish.’

  ‘Besides,’ she added. ‘The injury bled only a little before it stopped. I was surprised you did not realise Charlie. A person must bleed for more than a few seconds to die of a musket shot. I even tried to signal you with my eyes, before I shut them, that it was an act I made.’

  ‘I . . . I cannot say it strong enough, how glad I am that you live.’

  They clung together for a long moment, a warm glow in the cool dark graveyard.

  Maria drew away suddenly. ‘Where is Blackstone?’ she said. ‘I do not see him.’

  Charlie made a quick look around. Feathers were everywhere.

  ‘I found a piece of gravestone and struck him hard on the head whilst you were in the pit,’ added Maria. She looked around in confusion. ‘He fell, but I know not where he is now.’

  Keeping a tight hold of her hand Charlie moved past one of the larger headstones. A pitiful sight came into view.

  Blackstone sat panting, his vast bulk pressing against the grave. He had fallen heavily onto his seat, and though his eyes were open they were glassy and fixed on nothing.

  ‘Did you break his skull with the stone?’ whispered Charlie.

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Maria. ‘It did not feel as though his head broke when I hit him. Only that he went down.’

  They stood for a moment looking at the figure. Then slowly Charlie raised his hand to point. Set into the white flesh of Blackstone’s neck was the unmistakable red circle of a plague token.

  ‘He has it.’

  Maria nodded but said nothing.

  ‘He must have had it for a long time,’ added Charlie.

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Maria. ‘There are a few cases where the plague strikes very sudden. He must have taken this kind.’

  Then Blackstone spoke.

  ‘Please,’ he mumbled. ‘You must bring me a priest to take my confession. Please do not let my soul depart without absolution.’

  His eyes flickered, rolled upwards and then slowly shut. His great chest continued to heave in juddering gasps.

  Charlie and Maria looked at each other.

  ‘There is nothing we can do,’ said Maria.

  Charlie stared at the pain-wracked figure, gross with the tragedy of his life. A wave of pity swept through him.

  ‘We might still bring him a priest,’ he whispered, ‘at least, we might try.’

  ‘He does not deserve one. Beside, would you not wish to go now and open the chest your mother left to you?’

  Charlie gave her a half smile. ‘Some people poison their lives with revenge, and I should not want to make such a path for ourselves.’

  She didn’t reply, but he felt her hand tighten in his.

  ‘Come then,’ he said, ‘we will see if there is one who might help him in the City. The chest will be here when we return.’

  They rose and picked their way through the soft ground of the church.

  Though the first streaks of dawn were on the horizon the air stayed chill. The heat of the summer had eased. Something like a colder breeze was sweeping through London. Autumn was coming.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Blackstone leaned his huge weight against a gravestone behind him. The hunger swarmed into every part of him, and when his hand went to his neck it was thick, as though in swelling.

  A wave of white heat drove up all along his nerves and he cried out in agony, kicking his legs wildly.

  His eyes were clouding over as the night thickened around him.

  All his plans had been rent.

  He shrieked, arching his back. It felt as though his head would burst.

  ‘A priest,’ he pleaded into the empty night. No one came. Then all was dark and he floated in the torture of his own dying body.

  Blackstone blinked awake to see that the world before him had twisted into distortion. A low white light came through, but he could make out only writhing forms. This must be purgatory, he thought, sitting upright in his new environment. Every part of his body hurt.

  A dark shape was edging closer towards him and he stared at it wonderingly.

  Then the hood was lifted from his head and he realised his situation. In the throes of his illness he must have somehow put the mask back on. His shimmering vision had been through the gauze of the crystal goggles. Blackstone was still in Fen Church graveyard, but the sun was shining.

  In front of him was the face of a searcher, his features drawn into confusion.

  ‘Mr Blackstone,’ said the searcher. ‘Did you fall asleep on your duties?’

  Blackstone swallowed thickly. His throat burned.

  ‘I took a fever,’ he croaked. ‘But I am on my way to being righted now.’ He tried to sit further upright. ‘Give me a little drink,’ he added, pointing to the searcher’s flask.

  ‘Do not be frighted,’ he said, taking a long swig as the drink was passed to him. ‘I have not lost my mind. I will live through this yet.’

  ‘Inside the church,’ the searcher said, ‘There are some possessions from your house. We must clear out the church now. The minister returns.’

  Blackstone fought for the memory. He had put some of his household goods away for safety. Could the
y go back now? He tried to remember what had been put inside and found that he couldn’t.

  Now that he thought of it, he could remember nothing of how he came to be in this graveyard. His last memory was taking his wagon to Wapping.

  ‘There are some rugs and furniture in there,’ the searcher was saying. ‘And a large chest. Is any of it important?’

  Blackstone struggled to locate the jumble of goods in his mind. ‘There is nothing of value,’ he managed. ‘The rugs are not expensive. But the furniture was my father’s.’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘The chest is an old empty sea-chest, that is all. The key was lost long ago and we keep it for sentimental reasons.’

  ‘Then shall I clear it away sir?’ asked the searcher. ‘There is some food in there also which is beginning to rot.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Blackstone. ‘Clear it away.’

  Three months later

  The Bucket of Blood was crammed with afternoon drinkers as the landlord took to the nearest tabletop.

  ‘Peace good people!’ he shouted, one hand holding his long wig in place as he balanced on the shifting podium. ‘We are to have an extra entertainment for you all, on account of God bestowing his mercy on us and choosing to vanquish this late and terrible plague.’

  There were shouts of agreement from the jostling crowd.

  ‘Our King has returned to us,’ continued the landlord, ‘and our fine City has been spared.’

  He paused amidst the cheers, with his fist on his heart in a patriotic salute.

  ‘Notice I do not say fair City,’ he added. ‘For she has a few smuts and stains does she not? But she is our City. Which makes her fine enough. And God in His wisdom has delivered her back to us from the clutches of the devil himself. And so . . . .’

  He waved his hand to drive down the noise of the drinkers.

  ‘And so we have today . . . .’ He paused for effect. ‘Not one . . . but two bare-knuckle fights, as will happen here. In this very room!’

  The landlord raised both hands, gathering up the tumult of applause and then hopped down from the table to take the mounting flurry of drink orders.