by C. S. Quinn
‘It’s a body,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s a real dead woman hanging there.’
‘What?’ Percy’s voice was thick with scorn.
‘Lynette is not that good at acting,’ said Charlie.
‘But you can barely see in the candlelight,’ scoffed Percy. ‘It’s only theatre trickery. All I can make out is the dress . . .’ His words petered out and all colour drained from his face. ‘Oh, Lord preserve us,’ said Percy. ‘Sweet Jesus and all the saints above.’ He took a shuddering step backwards, treading on the foot of a seated lawyer who swore loudly. ‘It isn’t,’ whispered Percy. ‘It cannot be her. It isn’t.’
Percy had begun shaking uncontrollably. Charlie took him by the shoulders. The lawyer’s pale eyes were unfocused.
‘It’s her,’ murmured Percy.
Candles were being brought to the stage now. The figure was illuminated.
A blue dress, painstakingly panelled in watered-silk and lace.
Percy’s thin lips parted. ‘Maria,’ he managed. ‘It’s Maria who hangs there.’ He turned to Charlie, eyes wide with speechless horror.
But Charlie was already running for the stage.
Chapter 8
In the gloomy theatre, Tom Black was watching the thief taker. His thoughts drifted to Maria. How brave she’d been. He’d loved watching her face, the expressions. How she’d kicked and clawed at the carriage door as he’d vanished her.
Charlie Tuesday was racing towards the hanging corpse. The shouting and disorder were making Tom uncomfortable. He tapped his fingers together nervously.
To his surprise a woman wearing a black mask slipped herself in beside him. Stay calm, he reminded himself. It’s only a theatre-prostitute in her vizard. He could smell the herbs she’d scented her washcloth with, a woody blend of rosemary and camomile. His stomach tightened.
‘The play is over,’ she said with difficulty, after a moment. She was holding the mask to her face by means of a button secured between her teeth. It made her speech come out strangely. ‘Want to go outside?’ she tried.
‘No.’
She followed the line of his gaze. ‘Stage tricks,’ she observed, looking at the swinging body. ‘’S just an effect. You like theatre?’
‘It was an awakening for me,’ said Tom. ‘Before I discovered theatre, I had to watch people secretly.’
She laughed uncomfortably. ‘You like to watch people? To act?’ She was trying for seductive, but the button-secured mask was hampering her efforts.
Tom saw himself as a boy, watching children play. He’d always been on the other side of the glass, looking in. Then he’d discovered theatre, acting. It had been a revelation, seeing the rehearsals and plays. Tom had gorged himself on this exaggerated human emotion. It made him feel alive. Then he’d transferred his growing obsession to the real world. He began watching the dying animals in the butcher’s killing stalls, fascinated. Soon after, Tom had discovered executions. He’d devoured the tortures and hangings like a starving man, waiting every week with an eagerness that disturbed even his butcher father. Fear and pain were so rare they had to be savoured and rationed. Too much summoned the fairy folk.
‘No,’ Tom replied. ‘Acting is a great sin. But I made my weakness a strength.’
She took off the mask now, tiring of the button speech impediment. Her features were rounded and pleasant, free from cosmetics. Wisps of badly curled hair framed her chubby face.
He smiled at her, watching her response. ‘Watching theatre performances, rehearsals, I slowly pieced it all together,’ he said. ‘What the faces meant, the tilt of the mouth, the twitch of an eye. The subtlety fascinated me. I worked until I became a master of it.’
‘Oh?’ She tapped the mask coquettishly on her chin. ‘Can you tell me what I’m thinking now?’
He turned to her, absorbing her expression. Her smile faltered slightly. It was as though he were staring into her soul. ‘You’re hoping our transaction will be swift,’ he said. ‘You’re calculating how many men you might bed before dusk.’
Her face fell, but she rallied, moving closer, and he felt a spike of unease. Tom could feel the chaos churning beneath the surface, like something heavy waiting to fall.
‘Don’t . . .’ he began.
She took hold of his trousers roughly. ‘I’ll give you the time of your life,’ she promised, eyeing the crowds below. ‘No one’s watching. They’re all in a panic.’
He flinched at the contact, sending a hand flying up. It cracked across her face and she fell back. All hope of self-control slipped away.
‘You don’t know what I am,’ he said, grabbing her. ‘I am one of the fairy folk. I come from the dark city, through the lake of fire.’
He was losing speech now, thoughts flying randomly. Tom heard himself saying the words from far away. Underneath, another, weaker, voice was screaming in his mind.
Don’t. Kill. Her.
It was like shouting through treacle. His hands were shaking, jolting the girl in their grip.
‘I hunt creatures like you,’ he hissed, his eyes wide. ‘Drury Lane teems with prospects. The trick is to go early. Too late and all the fresh ones are gone. Only toothless hags left.’
The girl’s face was racked with horror. Tom drank it in.
‘The brothel whores are tempting but too dangerous,’ he continued. ‘They are under the protection of the whorehouses and would be noticed. I look for the ones like me.’ He brought his face closer. ‘The nothings. The nobodies. The ones who won’t be missed. Tell me, who knows you are here?’
She was about to scream: Tom could see it in her face. The realisation brought a flash of shock and with it a sudden measure of control. He felt as though he were walking atop a thin wall, inches from an abyss on either side. He screwed his eyes tight shut.
‘Don’t fall,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t fall.’ Teeth gritted, he forced his fists to open. He felt the girl spring free.
Tom opened his eyes. To his relief the girl was backing away, terrified. She wasn’t going to scream and shout. He could tell. He straightened his clothing and returned a pleasant expression to his face. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, this seemed to make her even more frightened.
‘Too much wine,’ he said, passing an apologetic hand across his head.
The girl ran. His eye followed her, assessing the threat. There was no need for another girl now. The fairies already had their changeling.
Tom returned his attention to the matter at hand. The Lord and Lady want to be found, he reminded himself. Now is the time. He had to be sure the thief taker took the bait.
Chapter 9
Amesbury was sat in the King’s bedchamber drinking, rolling the wine goblet around his large hands. In front of him was a paper.
‘The Lord and Lady,’ muttered Amesbury. ‘Who could have possibly imagined they would survive?’
His bull-like bulk fitted awkwardly on the ornate chair, thick legs pointed back in the attitude of a man who was more used to sitting on stools and floors. Amesbury had retained his thick leather military jerkin and boots, a purple sash his only concession to his recent earldom.
He sat back, considered, then picked up a quill and scratched some numbers on the paper. Amesbury glanced towards the sumptuous four-poster bed in the centre of the room. As if on cue, a seductive muttering drifted from behind the thick curtains, then laughter. He shook his head and returned to writing.
There was a prescribed knock and he stood to greet his one-time friend.
It was the first time Praise-God Barebones had seen inside the King’s bedchamber and Amesbury could feel the scorn pouring off him. The imposing royal bed, festooned with thick red silk with closed curtains, the sumptuous tapestries and glass chandeliers.
His eyes said, ‘Is this what we fought for, my old brother in arms?’
‘Master Barebones.’ Amesbury bowed.
Barebones returned the leanest of bows, flashing Amesbury a glare. Amesbury thought it took all his old friend’s restrain
t not to hiss ‘turncoat’. Amesbury had a sudden memory of them fighting side by side. The King’s court was distinctly lacking in men like Barebones, with his dense muscle and steely air of danger.
‘How might I address you now?’ asked Barebones, his voice thick with scorn. ‘Your Earlship? My liege?’
Amesbury smiled slightly. ‘You may call me what you like.’
‘Stories of your brave escape from Cromwell are legend,’ said Barebones. ‘They say you were pulled out of the Thames half dead.’
‘Almost all dead,’ corrected Amesbury. ‘The nuns who found me didn’t even try to dress my wounds.’
‘A heroic tale. And history is written by the winners,’ observed Barebones. ‘His Majesty will arrive soon?’
A flash of anxiety flared in his even features. Amesbury understood immediately. Barebones was a common man, with no experience of royalty. But he’d fought for the Republic and was ashamed of his nervousness.
‘His Majesty is here,’ said Amesbury. ‘But currently engaged.’ He nodded towards the bed.
‘I thought . . .’ Barebones was racked with confusion.
‘You thought the King’s bedchamber was name only,’ supplied Amesbury. ‘A place to conduct official business. It is usually so.’
Barebones began to speak and then stopped himself. A dainty white hand had slipped out from between the curtains, grasped the silken cord used to tie them and drew it inside. A giggling shriek followed.
Barebones’s face reddened with fury. ‘I represent the common people,’ he said. ‘God-fearing people.’ His eyes flicked to the bed again. ‘We made this country good, clean . . .’
Amesbury held up a quick hand. ‘Don’t lose your head,’ he cautioned quietly.
Barebones breathed hard, calming himself. There was an awkward pause. Barebones spoke first, clearing his throat. ‘You summoned me,’ he said. ‘You think I know of plots against the King. If you hope to recruit me as one of your tattling rats, you never knew me at all.’
Amesbury missed this kind of straight-talking. No good came of wallowing, he reminded himself. He gave the slightest incline of his head. ‘You were one of Cromwell’s best soldiers,’ he said. ‘You returned to your lock-making business when the war was over. A humble man, to live in the working district of London. Not much of that part left, now the fire has come and gone.’ Amesbury’s eyes were trained on Barebones.
‘If you think I am part of the unrest,’ growled Barebones, ‘come out and say it. Are you a courtier now, mincing words? That isn’t the man I knew.’
From behind the curtains came a throaty groan of pleasure.
Barebones glared. ‘I will tell you this, Amesbury,’ he said, his voice growing louder. ‘The common people talk much of Lady Castlemaine. Particularly those made homeless by the fire. The King gave her a house, did he not?’
‘She stripped the roof of lead and sold it for cash,’ supplied Amesbury, calmly. ‘To pay off her gambling debts. The King knows.’
‘Does he know last night she lost fifty thousand on the turn of a card?’ demanded Barebones.
The bed was silent. For a moment Amesbury thought the King might be astute enough to be listening. But then a sound of heavy breathing began, along with some disturbingly loud lip-smacking noises.
‘I need a drink,’ said Amesbury, as Barebones stared at the bed. ‘Wine?’
‘I don’t break Lent,’ said Barebones.
Amesbury poured two goblets of wine. ‘People claim the Lord and Lady survived the war,’ he said. ‘You imagine the consequences of what that might mean for the King.’ He proffered the second goblet impatiently.
Barebones hesitated, then took the wine and drank. ‘A fairy tale,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘An immortal brother and sister, with ancient blood. Fallen angels . . .’
‘The mob likes fairy tales,’ said Amesbury. ‘The apprentices seem to be running wilder than usual.’
The sound of heavy breathing started up again from behind the curtain.
Barebones gestured to the bed. ‘I knew a little Shambles girl,’ he said. ‘Due to wed. Honest, sober, hard-working. One day she sees Lady Castlemaine’s carriage. She thinks it must be the Queen, so fine she is, in her silk and pearls.’ Barebones’s lip was curled in contempt. ‘When the girl discovers it to be the King’s whore, she leaves the Shambles the very next day. Takes up in a whorehouse in Covent Garden. Her father died of the shame of it, and she was dead of the pox within a year.’ He drew himself up taller for effect, his eyes flashing with preacher’s zeal. ‘That girl’s brothers and cousins were apprentices,’ he concluded. ‘How might those young men behave, when given licence to sack brothels at Lent?’
‘I heard the same story,’ said Amesbury. ‘Only it was a Wapping girl, and the mother who died of shame. I suggest you save your fables for preaching.’ Amesbury drank his wine. ‘Some of the attacks have a military feel to them.’ He looked pointedly at Barebones. ‘As though someone is searching the brothels systematically.’
‘You think I hunt the Lord and Lady?’ demanded Barebones. He was looking carefully at Amesbury now.
‘I hope you don’t,’ said Amesbury. ‘I hope you are not so foolish as to plot. I’ve seen too many good men on the scaffold.’
Barebones took a step closer. ‘You know me as a truthful man,’ he said, his blue eyes blazing. ‘So you’ll believe me when I tell you, I make no plots.’
Amesbury nodded.
‘I am a man of action,’ concluded Barebones. ‘Not a conspirer or intriguer.’
‘The Lord and Lady were in the Tower when Cromwell took power,’ said Amesbury, his tone beseeching his old friend. ‘It’s not possible they were smuggled out. They were burned as heretic in one of the secret bonfires.’
‘More wine!’ the King’s disembodied voice sailed out.
‘Butter!’ called Lady Castlemaine.
Their voices dropped to laughing whispers.
Barebones touched the plain wooden cross at his neck and muttered something.
‘Pay it no mind,’ said Amesbury. ‘She loves an audience.’
The door was pulled ceremonially open and the Duke of York entered, walking quickly. He gave Barebones the disinterested bow of a king’s brother to a commoner and Amesbury felt his old comrade bristle.
‘They’re back in love then?’ said the Duke of York, shooting a weary tilt of his head towards the bed.
Amesbury nodded.
A theatrical female groaning had begun.
‘My brother’s only fault is loyalty to that woman,’ said the Duke of York sadly.
‘Loyalty is overrated,’ said Barebones, ‘as Amesbury will tell you.’
The Duke of York looked back and forth between the two men.
‘If those apprentices spark a riot they may turn on Whitehall,’ said Amesbury. ‘We have not the army to defend it.’ He seemed to be the only person wholly unconcerned by the sounds filtering from behind the curtain.
‘It’s royal sin they object to,’ said Barebones. ‘The public adultery, the parties. His Majesty might think to spend more time with his wife.’
The moaning grew suddenly louder.
Barebones glanced at the bed, then tipped wine into his mouth.
‘It’s too late for that,’ said Amesbury. ‘We need to put it down before it escalates.’
‘You’re a politician, now, Amesbury,’ said Barebones. ‘I’m sure you have planned for this.’
‘I’ve made arrangements,’ agreed Amesbury, ‘with one of the theatres.’
The Duke of York shook his head. ‘The actress? You won’t distract him for long,’ he said bitterly, nodding towards the bed. ‘She’s got her claws in too tightly. And he loves the children. My brave brother has weathered fire, plague and a Dutch attack,’ he continued, raising his voice slightly, ‘but I fear Lady Castlemaine may have finally lost him the crown.’
Chapter 10
The Birdcage Theatre was chaos as Charlie slipped towards the stage, weaving expertly t
hrough the panicked crowd.
Lynette had a high flush on her cheeks, breathing hard beneath her tightly laced costume. ‘Cut her down,’ she whispered, unable to take her eyes from the swinging body. Her voice grew to a shout. ‘God’s blood won’t someone cut her down?’
The cry was taken up by the crowd. A ragged sailor in naval calico began climbing the side of the stage. Realising the opportunity to win approval from London’s favourite actress, several other men began elbowing their way towards Lynette.
‘Wait!’ shouted Charlie. If the suspended body smashed to the floor, vital information would be lost. He broke into a run, shouldering through the tightly packed crowd.
A sailor was halfway up the scenery now, knees gripping the large canvas frame, knife between his teeth. The scene, a painted forest, swung at a wild tilt.
‘Lynette!’ shouted Charlie. ‘Don’t let her be cut down!’
But his one-time wife was still transfixed by the hanging body, hands gripped into fists.
A few of the crowd turned angrily on Charlie. Hands grabbed at his leather coat, trying to stop him getting to the stage.
The sailor began slicing at the rope to cheers. The cut caused the thick hemp to unravel sharply down, flicking the dead girl’s head at an obscene angle and starting the body on a slow rotation. Several drunks applauded.
Charlie broke free of the crowd and swung up easily onto the stage, now thick with men trying to get to Lynette.
‘Leave her alone!’ shouted Charlie, pushing through. He jostled a pack of blind-drunk aristocrats and one of them turned on him angrily.
‘Ho ho, fellows,’ boomed a slurred, plummy voice, ‘this street rat wants to keep the poor girl hanging.’
Charlie dodged one man’s drunken sword blow, relieved a pistol from the belt of another, ducked low and slid across the polished boards.
‘Stop!’ he commanded, forcing his eyes towards the swinging corpse and pointing the gun at the sailor. The unravelling rope had rotated the dead face towards the back of the stage, a long curling wig covering her features. Her arms and head slumped down, bare legs and feet turning slowly. The toes and fingertips were black with pooled blood.