Death Magic: Bestselling CS Quinn's latest short read

by CS Quinn

  ‘Did you think him the person who gave Nancy the silver thimble?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Poor Patrick could not afford an expensive item like that.’ The vicar’s gentle features flickered uneasily. ‘I was very concerned about the thimble. I even told Fitzgilbert. Though I’m not in the habit of telling tales,’ he added. ‘But with Lord Gilbert making visits … That man has more bastard children than legitimate ones. Only last year he ruined some poor local girl.’

  ‘But you thought Nancy sensible,’ confirmed Charlie.

  ‘Women can be giddy when it comes to baubles. I hoped her sensible. But the evidence was she hadn’t been.’

  ‘What of Nancy’s fortune-teller?’

  ‘I didn’t approve of course,’ smiled the vicar. ‘Some old crone telling stories.’

  ‘Do you know where to find her?’

  The cleric shook his head. ‘Nancy assured me she only had a few tarot cards turned. I didn’t object so long as she did no other occult divination.’

  ‘Did Nancy come to you for exorcism?’ asked Charlie.

  The vicar looked slightly taken aback.

  ‘Of course Nancy came for exorcism,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s the main practice of our church. I assumed you knew.’

  ‘Patrick too?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Yes. I think it did him good for a time. Many troubled people come to me,’ the vicar added. ‘I’ve made it my life’s work to relieve them.’

  John and Charlie exchanged glances. This wasn’t the usual practice of churches in London.

  ‘Our exorcisms are Bible readings and blessings with holy water,’ said the cleric carefully. ‘Nancy submitted herself only once. I think she may have been expecting harsher treatment. Because of Fitzgilbert.’

  He waited a moment, his eyes assessing Charlie.

  ‘You didn’t know Fitzgilbert carried out exorcisms?’ he decided.

  ‘Fitzgilbert performed exorcisms on Nancy?’ said Charlie, shocked.

  ‘Not on Nancy. On his poor wife.’

  The vicar shook his head. He looked sad. ‘I wanted to intervene. But Elizabeth is Fitzgilbert’s property. Both legally and in the eyes of God.’

  ‘Fitzgilbert was cruel then?’

  ‘I can’t tell you if his nature is cruel,’ said the cleric. ‘But his methods of expunging evil are.’ He looked directly at Charlie. ‘Elizabeth was denied food for days. She was purged, plunged in freezing water. Anything to weaken her spirit.’

  Charlie swallowed, remembering the dignified woman in the prison cell.

  ‘I don’t agree with such methods,’ continued the vicar. ‘We use restraints to make the demons tremble. But we are gentle and never discomfort our subjects. I believe Fitzgilbert wanted to control his wife.’

  The holy man’s mouth twisted. ‘There’s a lot of talk in these parts,’ he said slowly. ‘I can’t say how much is true. But it’s said that Elizabeth wanted Nancy to leave the house.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Elizabeth thought Nancy cursed. Possessed by the Devil.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘What now?’ asked John, as they left the vicar’s comfortable home.

  ‘The fortune-teller,’ said Charlie.

  ‘We don’t know where she is.’

  ‘We do. The vicar told us Nancy had tarot cards read. That’s a City trick. The fortune-tellers near Ald Gate are not so skilled. They divine from spit and feathers,’ he added, thinking of the simple women who clustered around Ald Gate promising to foretell marriages and births.

  ‘So the fortune-teller is in the City?’ asked John, his forehead wrinkling.

  ‘She was in the City,’ corrected Charlie. ‘She moved near the Ald Gate. In which case she’ll be simple enough to spot. City fortune-tellers hang the sign of Merlin’s head,’ he added, in answer to John’s uncertain expression. ‘Bethnal Green folk hang a palm.’

  ‘Right then,’ said John, ready to go.

  ‘You don’t need to come along,’ said Charlie. ‘An old crone is hardly dangerous. But if you’d still wish to do me a service, you might seek out the silversmith in the Bucket of Blood. See if he’s heard anything yet about a silver thimble being struck.’

  John nodded and set off south. Charlie turned west, towards the band of women who plied their wares around Ald Gate.

  The sign of Merlin’s head swung amid the cluster of barbershop and fortune-teller palms. Charlie made a quick assessment.

  This building, towards the back.

  He slipped between a loaded dung cart and two beggar boys. A mouldering rug hung in place of a door, shedding a cloud of tiny flies as Charlie pushed it aside.

  For a moment the dark room appeared empty. Then a shifting pile of rags moved and two rheumy eyes blinked forth. Charlie waited for his vision to adjust to the gloom. Old Joan was hunchbacked, her face folded in layers of brown skin. Shreds of threadbare fabric covered her ancient bulk and Charlie suspected her feet hadn’t been seen in a long time.

  ‘Don’t often see menfolk,’ she observed, in a creaking voice. ‘Will you know of a girl?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Charlie. ‘I want to know of a girl who came to have her fortune told here. Nancy. A maidservant for the Fitzgilberts in Bethnal Green.’

  ‘Many maidservants,’ said Old Joan cagily. ‘They’re mostly who I see.’

  Charlie brought forth a fistful of coins. The fortune-teller’s eyes widened hungrily. Carefully, he placed a penny in her palm.

  ‘I’ve four more,’ he said, as her hand closed more quickly around the money than he would have thought her age capable of.

  She beckoned for his hand. Slowly, he extended it.

  The fortune-teller’s strong fingers closed on his and she let out a hissing breath. Her eyes flicked up to his.

  ‘You,’ she said. ‘You are destined for greatness. Descended from kings.’

  Charlie shook his head.

  ‘I don’t want my fortune,’ he said. ‘I need to know about Nancy.’

  She kept her tight grip on his hand. After a moment she seemed satisfied by what she saw in his palm.

  ‘Nancy was in love,’ she said, releasing her grip. ‘Came to me for charms to break the spell.’

  ‘She didn’t want to be in love?’

  The fortune-teller shook her head, looking at him craftily.

  ‘Did she tell you who he was?’ asked Charlie.

  Old Joan held out her hand. Charlie dropped in another penny. The fingers closed. She sat back, watching him.

  ‘Nancy never gave me a name,’ she said finally. ‘But it must have been that red-headed lad. He had something on Nancy. Lured her into alleyways, backstreets.’

  ‘The red-headed boy was Nancy’s secret lover?’ asked Charlie, trying to fit the likelihood of this with what he knew.

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ replied the fortune-teller. ‘Only she was scared enough of him to do what she was told. She gave him money.’

  Old Joan closed her mouth with deliberate finality. Charlie slid another penny into her grasp.

  ‘Is that why Nancy kept the poppet and the shoe charm?’ he asked. ‘She was scared of this man?’

  He drew out the corn dolly. The bearded man with the cross strapped to him.

  The fortune-teller took it gently and turned it in her leathery hands.

  ‘This is the green man,’ she said. ‘Jack of the fields.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Charlie had a vague recollection of the name. He was someone dangerous and unpredictable.

  Old Joan laughed.

  ‘The green man is life itself,’ she cackled. ‘A force of nature.’ The yellowed whites of her eyes swivelled then lighted on Charlie’s. ‘He’s in all of us,’ she said. ‘Some more than others. Nancy more than most. You,’ she concluded, ‘have a lot of him.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Charlie, confused. ‘Why would Nancy have this charm?’

  ‘Is it not apparent? To a clever man such as you?’ The old woman sat back, pleased.
>
  Charlie gave another penny. One left, he counted.

  ‘Nancy,’ said the fortune-teller, ‘was scared of herself.’

  She tapped the cross. ‘I made this charm for her. To tame her wild ways.’

  Old Joan eyed him, assessing. ‘Nancy had dark things in her future,’ she said. ‘Dark and violent things. I gave her herbs. To keep her safe. To fortify her heart. But she lets him in. Nancy meets him in secret. And he will do a great violence to her. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Who?’ pressed Charlie. ‘Who does Nancy meet in secret?’ This time his last penny was out ready for her.

  ‘You know who,’ nodded the fortune-teller, ignoring the penny and digging her fingers into Charlie’s arm. ‘Nancy meets with the Devil himself.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Charlie was waiting thoughtfully outside the fortune-teller’s when John lumbered into view. He was sweating with the exertion of coming from the silversmith’s shop on Threadneedle Street.

  ‘I learned a little,’ said Charlie, as he neared. ‘Though how much is true is hard to say.’

  ‘I learned much,’ replied John. ‘Your silversmith has discovered who made the thimble.’

  Charlie stood straighter.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I can hardly believe it myself,’ said John. ‘The thimble was ordered by Mistress Fitzgilbert.’

  Elizabeth Fitzgilbert made the thimble.

  The revelation clarified a rush of half-formed suspicions. Facts began coming together in Charlie’s mind. What had Fitzgilbert said of Nancy?

  ‘She had no interest in men. Had none of that silliness …’

  Suddenly things fitted.

  John was shaking his large head. ‘I can’t think what it could mean,’ he said.

  ‘I think I might,’ replied Charlie, the conversation with the fortune-teller making better sense. ‘I think Elizabeth Fitzgilbert and Nancy were lovers.’

  John’s mouth dropped in a wide gape.

  ‘The mistress of the house and the maid?’ he said.

  ‘It’s not the first time it’s happened,’ shrugged Charlie. ‘Two women in close proximity. It would explain much – why Nancy believed Elizabeth possessed. Why she herself underwent exorcisms.’

  John nodded slowly.

  ‘Then you think Elizabeth Fitzgilbert is the killer?’ he suggested.

  ‘It’s possible. But I think it unlikely. We need to find the red-headed boy.’

  ‘How might we discover him?’

  ‘City law decrees Nancy will be buried today,’ said Charlie slowly. ‘Most likely in the paupers’ pit in Shoreditch.’ He paused. ‘I’ve a feeling our red-headed friend will be at the graveyard tonight.’

  ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘Something the fortune-teller said.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘A graveyard late at night.’ John gave a shudder. ‘There’ll be spectres and all sorts come out soon. What makes you so sure he’ll be here?’

  They were hiding in the hedges at Shoreditch. John was naturally superstitious and it had taken an additional bribe of a meat pie to bring him along.

  ‘The way Nancy is buried,’ said Charlie, ‘will draw him out. If he is who I think he is.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the way she’s buried?’ John was peering into the moonlit graveyard. A huge dark pit yawned out at them. They could just make out the shapes of dead limbs and the white residue of quicklime.

  ‘He won’t like it,’ said Charlie.

  John gave another theatrical shudder and crossed himself. He opened his mouth to speak again, when they heard a sound across the graveyard.

  Charlie raised a warning finger. They both craned further forward to look. A shape in the dark was making its way to the graveside. They watched as the shadowy figure hopped into the grave. Moments later a candle flame bloomed from deep in the pit.

  ‘This way,’ hissed Charlie. ‘Stay close.’

  John nodded and skulked behind as Charlie made his way to the graveside. At the edge Charlie peered over. Dead faces leered up, unseeing gummy eyes staring. The candle flame burned. Something was wrong.

  Charlie leaped aside just as hands grabbed at his long leather coat. He dodged, and someone lunged at him again. Charlie swerved, took hold of his assailant and they both plunged headlong into the corpse-filled pit.

  John was reaching for his crucifix as Charlie rolled and tussled.

  ‘It’s not a ghost,’ gasped Charlie, grabbing a handful of quicklime and throwing it. His assailant choked and cursed. Charlie took hold of him and pinned him to the cold stiff bodies.

  The red-headed boy twisted and swore.

  ‘There’s no need to fight me,’ said Charlie, wrestling to retain control. ‘We want the same as you. To find Nancy’s killer.’

  The boy’s struggle eased slightly.

  ‘Then why do you visit the witch in prison?’ demanded a surprisingly youthful voice.

  ‘To discover what she knows,’ replied Charlie. He let go, sensing restraint was no longer necessary. The red-haired boy groped for his candle and lifted it. For an instant Charlie thought he would attack again. But instead he offered a hand.

  ‘I’m Patrick,’ he said.

  ‘I know who you are,’ said Charlie. ‘You’re Nancy’s brother.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘When the vicar said Nancy came to London with her brother,’ explained Charlie, ‘I suspected it was you. He thought you in love with Nancy. He saw her rebuff your advances in church.’

  Patrick wiped his nose.

  ‘You knew I’d be here?’ he said.

  ‘A brother doesn’t like his sister buried in a paupers’ grave,’ said Charlie. ‘I guessed you’d come to take her remains somewhere better.’

  ‘But how did you know who I was?’

  ‘Nancy’s fortune-teller. Who else could persuade her to meet in dangerous back alleys and give money? She wasn’t a foolish girl.’

  ‘No,’ said Patrick. His face flushed suddenly and his eyes filled with tears. ‘She was a good girl,’ he said. ‘A very good girl. Until that old hag …’ He gritted his teeth. ‘She corrupted her. Mistress Fitzgilbert.’ He spat the words.

  ‘They were lovers?’ said Charlie.

  Patrick nodded.

  ‘And you think Elizabeth murdered Nancy?’

  ‘Of course she did,’ said Patrick miserably. ‘Nancy was trying to do right. To stay Godly. She had exorcisms, to drive out the Devil. At first it wasn’t enough. Her mistress’s power was too strong. Then Nancy tried to leave that cursed house. And the witch killed her.’

  ‘Nancy was going to leave the Fitzgilberts’?’ said Charlie. ‘I heard it the other way. That the mistress wanted free of the maid.’

  ‘Nancy told me she was leaving.’ Patrick gave a great sniff. ‘She was an innocent. Then she came here under that old crow.’

  ‘Yet Nancy left some scandal,’ said Charlie, ‘in her hometown.’

  Patrick coloured and Charlie knew he’d guessed right. Nancy had other women lovers before Elizabeth Fitzgilbert.

  ‘Might she have taken a man for a lover?’ asked Charlie. ‘Lord Gilbert? Or Mr Fitzgilbert?’

  Patrick shook his head.

  ‘She wasn’t … that way suited,’ he said. ‘She hoped to change it. Through prayer. I daresay she would have married in the end. Perhaps unhappily.’ His face contorted in ugly distaste. ‘Elizabeth Fitzgilbert murdered my sister. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Then she must have the silver thimble?’

  Patrick hesitated.

  ‘What does the thimble have to do with it?’

  ‘Her master thinks Nancy had the thimble the night she died,’ said Charlie. ‘It was missing from her body.’

  Patrick’s face appeared to be working through several thoughts at once.

  ‘It isn’t possible,’ he managed.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’ve seen the silver thimble,’ said Patrick. ‘And the man who has i
t couldn’t have killed Nancy.’

  ‘Who has the thimble?’ It took every ounce of self-control for Charlie to keep his voice level.

  ‘It was in his hanging pocket,’ Patrick muttered. ‘When I followed you to the bathhouse. I saw him take it out.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Charlie, though he’d formed a good guess.

  ‘Nancy’s vicar,’ said Patrick. ‘He has the thimble.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I … I believe so.’ Patrick looked flustered. ‘I saw it only for an instant. I assumed Nancy had given it to him to help cleanse her soul. It was from her,’ he spat. ‘The witch woman.’

  Charlie looked at John.

  ‘The vicar will be with Mistress Fitzgilbert on the death cart tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If the thimble is where Patrick says, he will have it with him.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘You think the vicar is the killer?’ asked John, as morning sunlight spilled across the Thames. Clink prisoners were carted over the river at dawn and they could hear the rumbling prison cart rolling closer.

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Charlie, who had learned not to prejudge a kind face. ‘If he has the thimble he certainly has some explaining to do.’

  ‘And if it isn’t the vicar?’

  ‘Then it’s most likely Elizabeth Fitzgilbert,’ said Charlie. ‘She’s always had the best motive. I’ve got a few questions for her too,’ he added.

  ‘How long will the cart stop at Newgate?’

  ‘Long enough,’ said Charlie. It wasn’t the first time he’d questioned a condemned prisoner on their way to Tyburn Hill. ‘Men and women to be executed are slow to load,’ he added.

  The cart rounded the corner. A jumble of ragged people were clustered on top. There were two armed guards and a customary black and white clad holy man at the head of the cart. It was the bathhouse vicar.

  He recognised Charlie and smiled encouragingly. Then he broke from the cart and came closer.

  ‘You are here to give comfort?’ he asked. ‘She needs it.’

  ‘How is she?’ asked Charlie, his eyes roving the cart for Elizabeth. He caught sight of her, pale and hunched, sat with three other stunned-looking women.