The Changeling Murders

by C. S. Quinn

  ‘Of course.’ He tried to look serious.

  ‘And I’m changin’ me name,’ she added. ‘No more Lynette. Tryin’ to be what I’m not. I’m just plain Nell from now on. Nelly if you want to get familiar.’

  ‘Nelly Stuart?’ he teased.

  ‘Ha! Not for the wide world. Mrs Nell Gwyn, if you please, and I’ll thank you to remember the Mrs.’

  ‘And what shall you call me?’

  ‘I’ve had a few Charlies before you,’ she said. ‘So you’ll have to be my Charles the Third.’

  Chapter 106

  Maria walked slowly into the dank prison. She held her hand over her mouth as a waft of stinking sewage enveloped her.

  ‘He’s in there,’ said the guard. ‘Only sits, looks straight ahead. Won’t take no food, though we did offer him some fine things. Parliament takes pity on him, yer see. One o’ our old heroes.’

  Maria went to the cell door and the guard stopped her. ‘He’s dangerous,’ he warned. ‘Killed a lot of men. Cromwell’s assassin he was.’

  Maria looked carefully at Tom’s face through the bars. ‘I’m not afraid of him,’ she said. ‘Open the door.’

  The guard pushed it back. Tom looked up at Maria as she stepped inside.

  ‘Why do you come?’ Tom asked, standing.

  ‘I wanted to tell you I forgive you,’ she said. ‘I thought that might matter.’

  There was a tiny smile on Tom’s face. ‘You are good,’ he said. ‘But I am an evil creature. Fairies may not be redeemed.’

  Maria stepped forward and took his hands. He gave a little start of shock but didn’t pull them away.

  ‘I want to tell you a story,’ said Maria. ‘A fairy story.’

  ‘I’ve heard all the fairy stories.’

  ‘Not this one.’

  Tom hesitated. ‘Then tell it,’ he said.

  ‘Once,’ said Maria, ‘there was a beautiful baby boy, with a wicked mother. One night whilst he slept in his crib, his mother pretended he’d been stolen away by fairies. She raised him to think it, and did terrible cruelties to him. But, after all, this little boy was just a boy and not a fairy.’

  There was a far-away look in Tom’s eyes. ‘How does the story end?’ he whispered.

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Maria. ‘It’s up to you.’ She held on to his hands. ‘Perhaps he repented, forgave those who’d wronged him, and God welcomed him home.’

  Tom was looking at his white hands, the flaking fingernails. ‘I cannot do as you suggest,’ he said quietly. ‘I have not the capacity.’ He gave her a small smile.

  Maria nodded.

  ‘You made me see things differently,’ he said. ‘I am thankful.’

  ‘You don’t fear to die?’ she asked.

  He tilted his head. ‘Why should I? Fairies are lives suspended. We crave mortality. Ultimately a fairy longs for death, but it cheats us.’

  ‘They mean to make an example of the rioters,’ she said, her eyes searching his. ‘They’ll execute you as a traitor.’

  ‘You must not fear for me,’ he said. ‘Fairies cannot die.’

  She nodded and stood to leave. As she touched the door she heard his voice.

  ‘Wait,’ said Tom. He hesitated, an expression on his face she’d never seen before. ‘I never did understand love,’ he said. ‘I always tried to. It seems to me a fleeting uncertain thing.’

  She waited for him to go on.

  ‘I know you are due to wed,’ he concluded. ‘But I think you love the thief taker.’

  Chapter 107

  In the aftermath of the riot, people had come out to clean up Covent Garden. Ordinary men and women took to the streets with brooms. Builders and carpenters gave their time to rebuild.

  Charlie watched them as he approached the unremarkable little house and knocked on the door.

  A remarkably pretty woman with glossy dark hair opened it.

  ‘Bess?’ asked Charlie.

  Her eyes flickered over his face, lips moving slightly. ‘Charlie?’ she decided finally. ‘Rowan’s brother. You’ve been sending money.’

  He nodded.

  She reached out a hand and touched his cheek. ‘You look like him.’

  She was about to say more when a sturdy little child toddled to the door. Bess scooped him up and the tiny boy reached for Charlie.

  ‘This is little Rowan,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Charlie felt himself smiling. There was something so familiar in the small features. He felt as though he were looking into another time.

  The little boy reached out chubby arms.

  ‘He likes you.’ Bess smiled proudly.

  She passed Rowan across and Charlie took the warm weight. The child grasped a hank of his blond hair and tugged it hard.

  ‘Don’t pull at your uncle,’ scolded Bess.

  ‘His father did the same at his age.’ Charlie said, disentangling the determined hand.

  Bess smiled. ‘I’ve been hoping you’d come,’ she said. ‘I wanted to thank you for the money. A lot of men wouldn’t have felt the need to provide for . . . for someone like me.’

  The little boy wriggled to be free and Charlie set him down. He saw the strong resemblance to Rowan was tempered with something else. Something softer, from Bess’s face. It was a good combination, he thought.

  Rowan toddled off and began occupying himself with a wooden spoon, rapping it against a wall and turning to be sure he had an audience.

  ‘He’s a little dramatist,’ said Bess. ‘I take him to all the plays. He’s already been on stage. Played Titania’s pretty stolen babe,’ she said proudly. ‘Of course,’ she added hurriedly, ‘I’ll be sure to look to a respectable position for him, as he gets older. I’ll look for a good apprenticeship. Theatre is so unreliable.’

  Charlie smiled at the little boy. ‘I think things are changing,’ he said.

  Chapter 108

  Lily and Charlie were sharing a barrel of beer and a pile of pig knuckles at the Birdcage. The illegal theatre was looking smarter. The players had found the money for a large arched stage.

  ‘Will you go back to Maria now?’ Lily asked, glancing up at Charlie. ‘Don’t look at me that way,’ she added. ‘It’s clear she’s never stopped loving you. Perhaps it’s time you got a house and home.’

  ‘She’ll go back to Percy,’ said Charlie with certainty. ‘It’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘Percy is alive then?’ asked Lily curiously. ‘Tom didn’t murder his mark?’

  ‘He was working away in Temple Bar the entire time,’ said Charlie. ‘He thought Maria had jilted him and was waiting for her to come around. Never even knew Maria was missing.’

  ‘Surely that’s reason enough to forgo the wedding?’

  ‘Not for Maria,’ said Charlie. ‘She’ll honour her promise.’

  ‘You sound bitter.’

  ‘Do I? Maybe I do,’ admitted Charlie. ‘Perhaps I made a mistake to let her go.’ There was a silence as he frowned down into his beer. ‘You were right,’ said Charlie suddenly, ‘when you said I left you to go out to sea alone. I should have come.’

  Lily was staring straight ahead. ‘Why didn’t you?’

  Charlie let out a breath. ‘I was afraid to leave London. It’s everything I know.’

  ‘You know what I learned at sea?’ said Lily. ‘You can’t do it all on your own. You need to trust your crew. If I’d have learned it sooner, I wouldn’t have lost my ship.’

  ‘Is this your way of saying you still want to be partners?’

  She smiled. ‘We haven’t talked terms. But I’d be open to it.’ She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. ‘What say you, Charlie? I could manage things, be sure you collect your debts. We wouldn’t be rich, but we’d have money enough.’

  ‘Don’t you want to get back out to sea?’

  Lily gazed out across the theatre. ‘I’m liking London more,’ she said. ‘It’s a good place for a woman.’

  Charlie nodded.

  Lily’s eyes slid to his. ‘Who woul
d you have saved from the noose?’ she asked, and he detected the strain of her trying to sound casual. ‘If you’d have had to choose?’

  ‘You,’ said Charlie.

  Lily looked shocked. Then her eyes narrowed. ‘You’d say the self-same to Maria,’ she accused.

  ‘Of course I would. You think I know nothing about women?’

  Lily smiled into her beer.

  Charlie looked at her, and for a moment Lily thought she saw a glimmer in his eyes. Something that made her think perhaps he would have saved her.

  About the Author

  Photo © Richard Bolls

  C.S. Quinn is the bestselling author of The Thief Taker, Fire Catcher and Dark Stars. Prior to writing fiction she was a travel and lifestyle journalist for The Times, the Guardian and the Mirror, alongside many magazines.

  In her early academic career, Quinn’s background in historical research won prestigious postgraduate funding from the British Arts Council. Quinn pooled these resources, combining historical research with first-hand experiences in far-flung places to create Charlie Tuesday’s London.