by Jo Macauley
Beth’s ears pricked up as she sat listening, and she saw John’s eyes widen as a quick flash of fear shot through him. Did the man know something? Did he suspect then and was trying to trap them? Stay calm, John, Beth thought urgently.
Keeping his voice neutral, John asked, “What’s your trade?”
“Bell founder,” Mott said gloomily. “Bells ringing all over London, ringing for the dead, and the man who makes ’em can’t make ends meet! I haven’t had an order in weeks! Nobody dares set foot in the city with the plague abroad.”
“It’s the same all over,” agreed John. “Money’s scarce.” Then, making it sound like an afterthought, he added, “Though there’s plenty being spent on fancy palaces and jewelled coronets...”
Mott looked at him with red, impenetrable eyes. Then, in a low voice full of venom, the man burst out “You don’t know the ruddy half of it!”
“Didn’t mean no offence,” John said hastily.
Mott sneered. “You’ve much to learn about the state of this nation, son. Where do you think the money for all them royal fripperies comes from? Out of the pockets of men like me!”
“Taxes,” John said, with a disgusted shake of his head.
“They’d tax the bread from out your mouth, this government would!”
“Where I come from, they still talk about the Ship Tax,” John said. Beth’s heart was in her mouth, praying that her friend’s gamble would pay off. Charles I had introduced the hated Ship Tax to pay for the cost of his Navy, and many people believed it was the spark that had ignited the Civil War. If Mott really were a Republican, this would flush him out.
But Mott didn’t answer at all. He just drank down his whole tankard of beer in one draught and held it out to John for another. Only when John brought a full tankard back did the man speak again.
“Restoration of the blasted monarchy,” Mott said, spraying saliva as he did. “All so the King can sit on a velvet cushion eatin’ quails while the poor honest working man has to go begging in the street! It’s a wickedness, Jack. New taxes. New regulations. Can’t trade outside of this district or that one without papers. Can’t sell without the King skimming the cream off the top. Can’t even wipe your nose without paying some fee to some bloodsucking leech.”
He’s deep in his cups now, Beth thought eagerly. He can’t even remember John’s name. He’s hooked him now. Time to reel him in.
“My father used to say the same,” John told Mott. “Promised us it would all be different when Parliament was in charge. He had such hope.”
Mott just looked at him glassy-eyed. Either he was drunker than they had realized, or he was trying to work out if John was a liar.
“He taught us all the songs,” John said, choking with feigned emotion. “Babylon is fallen, is fallen, is fallen! Babylon has fallen, to rise no more...”
It was the hymn Cromwell’s New Model Army had sung, celebrating the destruction of the monarchy and the death of the last King.
“Keep it down, you damn fool!” Mott snapped. “D’you want the whole street to hear you?” He leaned in and whispered low, “There’s a proper time and place for such songs and this is neither.”
“Babylon rose again, though, didn’t it?” John scowled. “Perhaps honest men could tear it down again.”
Mott was about to speak, then checked himself. “I’ve taken much strong drink,” he decided. He stood, swaying, holding onto the back of the chair for support. “I’m for my bed.”
“I’ll see you home,” John said quickly. “Where did you say your foundry was?”
“Whitechapel,” Mott said. “But I’ll walk alone. Don’t need no boy to help me.”
Crashing into several tables and knocking down a chair on his way to the door, Robert Mott stumbled out of the inn.
John rushed to Beth’s side the second he was out of sight.
“The man’s a conspirator, Beth. I’d bet my life on it! I found out where he works too.”
“I think you’re right. We have to search his house! But where’s Ralph? We’d better go and look for him...”
Beth headed out into the street and, to her relief, saw the cellar trap door was still open. She leaned down and peered into the gloom but there was no sign of Ralph. A moment later, she saw his pale face pop up from behind a barrel. “Psst!” he called. “Get down here, quick!”
“What is it?”
“Signs of conspiracy, or I’m a Turk!”
Ralph pulled a barrel over for them to use as a step, and the two quickly climbed down to join him in the cellar. Ralph pointed over to a far corner, where half-casks that once held beer had been pulled into a square. In the middle was another cask, where the melted stub of a candle stood.
“Chairs and a table,” Beth breathed. “A secret meeting place.”
“That’s not all,” Ralph said. “Look!”
On the wall behind, four familiar sets of initials had been scrawled darkly onto the brickwork:
SP
LB
JL
RM
“What are they written in?” John said, puzzled. “That’s not paint, is it...?”
“Not likely,” muttered Ralph.
A cold fist tightened around Beth’s heart. “It’s blood.”
Chapter Ten - The Bell Foundry
A sign jutted out into the street above the door of a tall building. Three bells shone on it, gold against a deep blue background. From within came the sound of crackling flames, the ring of metal on metal, and the occasional screech of a grindstone. Beth felt that now-familiar sensation of excitement, fear and an odd clarity as she, John and Ralph crouched behind a low wall across the street, planning their next move. She knew she was well suited to the life of a spy – thoughts of weariness or hunger hadn’t even crossed her mind.
The house in whose front yard they crouched was shuttered up, its door branded with a red X. Nobody would be coming out to shoo them away, they knew that much.
“Finding the bell foundry wasn’t hard,” John mused. “Getting inside, well, that might be a little harder.”
“By the sound of it, there’s easily a half-dozen people still working in there,” Ralph frowned. “How are we going to get our hands on Mott? Wait for them all to leave, then throw a bag over his head?”
“We can’t confront Mott here,” Beth said. “We need to find out where he lives. It’s getting late. If we wait for them to close up shop, we can follow him home.”
The sun had already begun to set over London, turning the street into an avenue of shadows. Only the distant flame of a street-corner fire gave any strong light. Some of the houses’ windows still showed a weary glimmer as families began to gather for the evening meal, but many of them were as silent and dead as their former occupants.
Sure enough, it wasn’t long before the first weary worker packed up and headed away from the bell foundry. Four more followed soon after, leather tradesmen’s aprons folded over their arms, their hands blackened from long hours at the forge.
“Which one’s Mott?” Ralph whispered.
“None of them!” Beth hissed, unable to hide her frustration as she peeked out from behind the brick wall, watching the men go past.
“He looked drunk out of his wits when he left the Four Swans,” John said miserably. “Maybe he stopped to sleep it off in an alley somewhere.”
“All the better for us if he has!” said Ralph. “We can break in and search his office. He’s bound to have one in there...”
“Wait!” Beth said suddenly, pointing up. “There he is!”
Robert Mott’s head and shoulders appeared at the very uppermost window of the foundry, a tiny casement just below the eaves. He yawned, smacked his lips, pulled the window shut, then retreated back inside.
“He’s not wearing a shirt,” Beth said. “It looks as though he’s going to bed.”
“Indeed,” said Ralph. “Did you see the candle holder in his hand?”
“Of course!” John said. “His lodgings must be
above the foundry. Mott doesn’t have any other home than this!”
“All the other windows are dark,” Beth noted. “There’s nobody but Mott to see us if we sneak inside, and he’s retired to bed early...”
“Round the back, then,” Ralph said determinedly. “Follow me.”
A silent confidence settled on their friend, and he was in his element again, Beth knew. Stealthy entrances, back-alley adventures, midnight escapes – they were all meat and drink to Ralph. But she always had a feeling that his risk-taking attitude would get him into real danger one day...
A six-foot wall surrounded the foundry’s back yard. A wooden door led through it, but it was bolted from within. Ralph studied the wall for a moment, deep in thought, then bounded forwards and grabbed the upper ledge with both hands. A second of scrambling, and he was up, straddling the wall like a boy on a horse.
“Nothing to it,” he grinned. “Come on up, you two. There’s nobody about.”
“Be a gentleman and give me a lift up, would you?” Beth said to John, her eyes twinkling playfully. John, blushing furiously, laced his fingers together to make a step for her. Together he and Ralph hoisted her up and onto the wall. Scrabbling about like this wasn’t exactly ladylike, she reflected with a wry smile, but spies couldn’t afford to fret about such things when there was work to be done.
She dropped down neatly into the yard, her stage training affording her some skill in taking falls easily. She looked around her. The yard area was a mess, with broken pottery bell moulds lying around like the eggshells of monstrous birds. The smell of scorched metal was strong in the air; the foundry forges must still be warm from the day’s work. A rickety-looking wooden staircase zigzagged up the back wall of the building, with doors at all three floors and a smaller door right at the top. That must lead into Mott’s dwelling, the attic room.
John and Ralph jumped down behind her, John landing with a thump, Ralph light as a cat. Ralph tapped her on the shoulder and pointed up at a half-open window on the third floor.
“That’s our way in,” he said with a grin. “I love it when I don’t even have to break anything.”
“We’re not going straight up to Mott’s rooms?” John asked.
“Use your noddle, greenhorn,” Ralph whispered, tapping his forehead. “Mott might be asleep, but he might not be. For all we know, he’s waiting behind that door for us to burst in on him. We’ll search the foundry first, then call on Mott when it’s good and dark and we’re sure he’s asleep.”
“Agreed. Let’s make a start.” Beth began to climb, but winced as the staircase creaked alarmingly under her weight.
“On second thought, perhaps you two should wait until I’m inside before you climb up after me,” she whispered back at them. “It’ll be quieter. And safer!”
Don’t look down, she told herself as she reached the second floor, but she couldn’t help it. The jagged pot shards down in the yard looked like spikes ready to receive her falling body, and there was no railing on the side of the rickety staircase.
Trembling a little and breathing hard from the effort, she squeezed her way in through the window. It was still stifling hot inside the foundry. No wonder they’d left a window open despite the plague. In the gloom of the early evening she couldn’t see much, but it was impossible to miss the huge iron bell hanging in the workshop’s centre. A scaffold of wooden poles reaching from floor to ceiling held it off the ground. Workbenches stood against the walls, where half-finished bells lay among the clutter of tools.
Beth hesitantly approached the great bell, amazed by its size. It was a wonder the floorboards didn’t give way under the weight. It was taller than she was, and the clapper – fitted in place already, she saw – was almost as long as her own body.
“Look at that monster,” Ralph whispered behind her, and she flinched at the sound of a voice. John was climbing in behind him, his face ashen from the climb. “Where do you think it’s going to end up?”
“Some cathedral, surely,” Beth replied.
“There’s the foundry’s mark,” said Ralph quietly, pointing out the three bells on the inside surface. “It looks like this bell’s almost finished.”
“What’s that up there, in the ceiling?” John was staring past the bell to the bare roof-beams and boards. “It looks like a trap door, but there’s no stairs or ladder.”
“That must be from an old grain lift,” Ralph whispered. “The winch would have been up in the room above. Must be disused now. Nicely spotted, John. I reckon I can shinny up the scaffolding the bell’s hanging from, open up that trap door and sneak right into Mott’s attic!”
“So long as he hasn’t put a table down on it, or a bed,” John replied dubiously. “Why shouldn’t he have, if the trap door’s not in use any more? You’d make a right cake of yourself, hanging up there with no way in—”
“Why don’t we search the workshop first,” Beth cut in quickly, her voice low. “We’re losing daylight, and it’s not like we can spark up a lantern in here. We’d be seen.”
Hurriedly they began to search. There was little to see but a medley of clay moulds, bricks, iron ingots and smithing tools. John found a drawer full of papers and brandished them excitedly, but they proved to be nothing more than the foundry accounts. All Ralph discovered was a cast-iron clapper used to make the inside of a bell ring. He tucked it into his waistband, insisting it could make a good missile.
Just as Beth was resigned to finding nothing, a tiny detail caught her eye. On the window ledge at the back of the room lay a thick layer of black soot, obviously not cleaned up for many a year. There were white marks in it where someone had been drawing with a fingertip.
She stared. One of the marks was a circle within a circle, with a line above it, just as in the note Tynesdale had found, and beside the circles was a clear capital letter B. The rest of the drawing had been smudged out – whether accidentally or deliberately, she couldn’t tell.
“Look at this...” she hissed to the others.
They crowded round, glancing at one another as they recognized the symbols.
“Look at the line,” Beth said, pointing. “The way it curves – it looks almost like a map. That letter B could be telling us what the double circle means...”
“Barrel?” Ralph guessed. “Bell tower? Bomb?”
“It could be ‘bell’,” John said. “That looks like the beginning of an E next to the B.”
Beth found a pencil and paper and quickly made a sketch of the markings. The double circle looked like a thick O, she thought in passing – and something suddenly flickered deep within her mind, like a silver fish flashing its scales before vanishing back into the lightless depths.
“Beth?” John asked.
Her brow was furrowed deep with sudden concentration. “Wait! I’ve got something ... a line from Shakespeare...”
“Go on!”
“It’s something I can remember, something so familiar I feel like I’ll kick myself when I realize what it is...”
Ralph and John looked on, holding their breath.
Eventually Beth sighed and put the paper away. “It’s no use. It’s gone. For a moment there, I really thought ... No, never mind.”
“Well, we’d best get comfy,” Ralph said in a hushed tone, sighing himself. “I reckon we need to give it an hour at least before we go calling on Mott.”
“Who’s for a game of noughts and crosses?” John said brightly.
Beth and Ralph looked at one another, and the scrappier boy rolled his eyes.
* * *
The darkness was almost absolute now. Only dim moonlight through the window gave enough light to see the vague shapes of objects around them. Beth strained her eyes to see the great bell, which hung in the room like a giant’s helmet, its huge shadow the darkest place in the room.
Ralph stuck his head out of the rear window and looked up at Mott’s attic. “No candlelight in the window,” he reported back. “I reckon Mott’s long since gone to sleep. It’s ti
me.”
“Ralph, promise me you’ll let John and me in through the door the moment you’re up inside that attic,” Beth insisted. “Even if Mott’s asleep, he’s still up there. And he’s dangerous!”
“I’ll go straight to the door and let you in,” Ralph said. “Promise.” He made a criss-cross sign over his heart and winked.
“Or I could climb up first...” John said bravely, but Ralph hushed him.
“Watch and learn, mate. This is how a seasoned spy does it.”
Beth and John watched as Ralph scaled the scaffolding tower. He was up there quicker than a monkey, as if he were born to it. The bell stirred as his climbing shook the frame, swaying gently backwards and forwards, though thankfully not nearly enough to sound a peal. Beth’s chest tightened as she watched him climb. Soon he was almost at the top, though the trapdoor wasn’t directly above the scaffolding. Ralph would have to hold on with one arm and stretch out with the other to open it. If he fell, he’d surely break his neck.
Hold on, Ralph, Beth silently prayed.
“Easy does it,” Ralph muttered to himself. He reached out and gently pushed the trap door upwards. It yielded without even a creak, and he looked down and gave Beth a grin of victory. He pushed it further up and over, careful not to let it fall with a crash, and when he was sure nothing was moving above his head, he gripped the lip of the opening with both hands, took a breath and swung out over the void.
But just as he did, a hairy, scarred hand shot down and grabbed Ralph’s wrist.
“GOT YOU NOW, YOU LITTLE WEASEL!” roared a voice from above. It was Mott!
“Haul him up!” screeched another man’s voice somewhere above them. “Don’t drop him!”
“Drop him?” Mott boomed. “I’m going to gut him!”
Ralph fought to get out of Mott’s grasp. With one flailing hand he regained his grip on the scaffolding pole and hung on.
Beth ran forward, thinking of nothing but the danger Ralph was in. She began to climb the scaffolding, reaching up for him, but he was still far too far away...
“It’s a trap!” John yelled. “Ralph!”