Fire Catcher

by C. S. Quinn

  He shook his head. There was nothing there. Just an ordinary bible scene.

  The last portion of window showed two disciples. They splintered apart raining down. For some reason, Charlie couldn’t place these particular men.

  Something about the way the marriage was set out didn’t quite make sense. The bride, the groom. Jesus and Mary. Disciples. And then it hit him.

  They’re not disciples. They’re witnesses. Witnesses to the marriage ceremony.

  Suddenly Charlie knew what the marriage papers were.

  Torr’s last words.

  To be an alchemist you must question known truths.

  With a sinking heart Charlie realised he’d shown Blackstone where to find the greatest power in England.

  ‘We must find the papers,’ said Charlie, throwing a leg over the side of the organ. ‘I know what they hold.’

  And without waiting for her, he began making his way down.

  ‘What?’ shouted Lily, following after him.

  ‘I thought you needed three people for a wedding,’ said Charlie. ‘A bride, a groom, a minister. The stained glass reminded me. A true wedding needs five people in total.’

  ‘Five?’ Lily looked confused.

  ‘All this time,’ said Charlie, clambering down the ornately carved organ, ‘I thought Thomas and Teresa’s names on the certificate meant they got married.’

  ‘It didn’t mean that?’

  ‘No.’ Charlie dropped to the ground. The molten rain had eased now and only a few scant drops fell between the belfry and the private chapels.

  ‘Two witnesses.’ Charlie scanned for the best route. ‘To make things legal. Thomas and Teresa signed those marriage papers, because they were witnesses. At someone else’s wedding.’

  He pointed to the front of St Paul’s, where a familiar crest hung.

  ‘Lead into gold,’ breathed Lily. ‘A commoner into royalty. You had it right.’

  ‘The right idea,’ said Charlie. ‘The wrong commoner.’

  Chapter 138

  The King wheeled on his horse. The fire had come too quickly. He knew it and the men knew it too.

  The Carpenters’ Hall had fired. Flames had burst through the guild without warning. Any hope they had of securing extra commoners had vanished. Flames now came from all directions. They’d fought all through the night, but still had no hope of winning.

  ‘It’s not as fierce as we’ve fought,’ said Charles. ‘But we’ve a tenth of the men.’

  ‘Orders have been sent,’ said James. ‘I’ll have twenty naval men here within the hour.’

  ‘It won’t do us any good.’

  ‘Sailors race up rigging,’ said James. ‘They can climb the buildings and settle the firehooks. Each naval man is worth two troops. They’ll pull buildings twice as fast.’

  ‘Even so,’ said Charles. ‘Even with sailors, we haven’t enough men.’ He was looking at the Tower, thinking.

  ‘How much gunpowder is in the Tower?’ asked Charles.

  ‘Two hundred barrels at least,’ replied James, making a quick calculation of the arsenal. ‘Once fire hits, the whole Tower will explode.’

  ‘Send men,’ said Charles. ‘Start rolling out the barrels.’

  ‘There’s no time,’ said James. ‘We can’t clear out that amount of gunpowder. You’d best set your troops to make firebreaks. Slow the blaze.’

  ‘Send men,’ ordered Charles. ‘Remove the gunpowder.’

  The Duke of York opened his mouth to protest and then decided against it. His brother would lose the crown tonight. There was no harm in obeying his last ill-judged order.

  Chapter 139

  Two candles winked out in the gloom of St Paul’s crypt.

  Teresa Blackstone’s empty eye sockets glared out accusingly. They watched as two shadowy figures approached the edge of her magic circle. Then whispered voices echoed.

  ‘This is it,’ said Charlie, looking up at the crest. ‘Blackstone’s family chapel.’

  It was a narrow room leading off the main cathedral. Carved wood screens partially barricaded the entrance. A high stained-glass window cast twisting colours on to the weaving nest of Teresa Blackstone’s possessions.

  ‘The smell.’ Lily was covering her nose. ‘It’s unbearable.’

  ‘The light comes from deeper inside,’ said Charlie. He was moving like a sleepwalker. ‘There.’

  Charlie had stopped.

  ‘These are her things,’ he said. ‘Teresa’s.’

  They had reached the edge of a jumble of possessions which glowed from behind by an eerie light. At first they seemed to be household items. Books, a few chairs. But as their eyes adjusted to the candlelight everything was wrong.

  The furniture was broken and old. Little animal corpses lay in piles in and around the broken furnishings. Birds, mice and squirrels had been wrapped into corn dollies, their dead eyes peering out. Some had been crowned in leaves and others tied with ribbon and anointed with candlewax.

  ‘Poppets?’ whispered Lily uncertainly. She was looking at the decorated animal corpses.

  ‘It was for magic,’ said Charlie trying to remember. ‘She collected them. I think . . . Rowan brought her some of them.’

  A memory was flickering through his mind. Two boys descending into a cellar. Ribbons. Blood.

  ‘What are the branches?’ whispered Lily. She was staring at the twisted dead foliage that tumbled over the edges of a broken chair. It was knotted at points, giving the appearance of a crazed nest.

  ‘Oak for strength,’ said Charlie, ‘willow for power. Purple ribbon for enchantment.’

  His hand sought out the faded purple ribbon that held his key.

  Lily glanced at him and then back. She was staring at them both reflected in a broken mirror. The glass forked Charlie’s face with an ugly crack.

  ‘This is all household furniture,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t see her personal things.’

  ‘It’s a circle,’ he added. ‘The way her things are arranged. A witch’s circle. So she will be at the centre.’

  Charlie’s mind was rolling with dark remembered things.

  I am the magic, I am the power.

  ‘You’re sure you want to go on?’ asked Lily.

  Charlie nodded, eyeing the pile. ‘There will be a way in,’ he said. ‘If Blackstone means to burn her then he must have left a path.’

  He began moving around the edge of the broken furniture and knotted branches. After only a few steps he found where the possessions were parted by a foot.

  ‘Here,’ he called. ‘By the east,’ he added, mentally remapping the church above. ‘This is all symbolism. Her better things are here,’ he added, moving towards the candles.

  A tapestry had been draped barring the way ahead and pewter plates and cutlery were arranged on the ground. Pinned to it was a torn part of a picture.

  ‘The missing part of his family tree,’ said Charlie. ‘Teresa’s half.’

  ‘It’s empty,’ said Lily, turning to Charlie. ‘The only face is hers.’

  Charlie’s mind was ticking. The portrait of Teresa’s face was so familiar.

  He could see it in his nightmares. Charlie tried to separate the dark shifting memories, to apply thief-taker logic. The face. There was something about Teresa’s face. But then it slipped and danced away and shadows crowded in.

  ‘Come, we must find the chest,’ Charlie decided, moving the tapestry. His fingers seemed to tingle as they swept it aside.

  Beyond the fabric lay a circle of flickering candles.

  Charlie’s eyes tracked around the low light, searching for the chest.

  Then he saw the body.

  The lips had rotted back in a ghoulish toothy smile, but part of the cheeks and upper face remained. A curtain of white hair cascaded over the plinth. The familiar features had been eaten away. A leering crone lay beneath.

  The empty sockets seemed to wink out at Charlie. As though she could work dark magic from beyond the grave.

  One drop of
blood, Charlie Oakley.

  He felt Lily bump against him as she stopped short.

  ‘Gunpowder.’ Lily pointed. Teresa’s remains were circled with kindling and faggots of wood. In among them were kegs of black powder. The lids were off, and fuses were set, ready to blaze through the pyre.

  ‘When he lights the fuses this whole chapel will blow,’ said Charlie.

  He moved a little closer to the body.

  ‘It was not the dress she died in,’ said Charlie. ‘You can see how she was mauled into it.’

  The green fabric was in the old court style. Wide at the bottom with thick lace at the neck and wrists. Teresa’s arm had been twisted at an obscene angle through the narrow bodice.

  ‘Her wedding gown?’ suggested Lily, regarding the elaborate lace. She moved closer to the body and examined the plinth.

  Charlie nodded, drawing back.

  A tablecloth lay covering something low on the ground and Charlie pulled it away. It was only when he heard Lily gasp that he truly understood what he’d revealed.

  Three jars had been arranged around the base of the plinth. Crowns of drooping flowers decorated their rims but did not hide the contents.

  ‘Are they . . . ?’ Lily could not say the words.

  ‘They must be hers,’ Charlie said. ‘She must have preserved them. After they . . . After they were born early.’

  Each jar was filled with clear liquid. And floating inside an unformed child.

  ‘They’re deformed,’ said Lily, eyes riveted to the grisly embalmings.

  Charlie swallowed.

  ‘I’ve seen this before,’ said Lily, looking sick, ‘in the country. When the blood is too close.’

  Charlie looked at her, uncertain of her meaning.

  ‘Sisters and brothers,’ said Lily. ‘The children come wrong. Early.’

  Charlie covered his mouth in shock.

  ‘Teresa Blackstone’s missing family tree,’ he said. ‘She didn’t have one, because hers was Blackstone’s. They were brother and sister.’

  Chapter 140

  Lightning crackled above as Blackstone raced down the stairs.

  Within this very cathedral was the key to the greatest power in England. Blackstone felt the thrill of it course through him.

  The key. Teresa’s wedding chest.

  It slotted into place now. After all these years. Clever Sally Oakley. She knew no one would look in the wedding trunk. It was a cursed thing.

  Blackstone’s mind pulsed with the thunderstorm ahead. Jumbled images were colliding.

  Charlie Oakley. He looks just like his father.

  Somewhere in the reaches of his mind, Blackstone thought he’d seen Sally’s grown-up son before. But the memory kept spinning away.

  Then a bright solid picture settled. His gentle sister, washing his wounds. Her beautiful face taut with concern. His father’s voice.

  Next I will test your brother’s faith on the rack. As the martyr St Devota endured.

  Blackstone grew up to know his older sister as an angel. Set on high. Glacial perfection and beauty. He wasn’t sure when he’d begun to feel differently towards her.

  Blessed blood. His father’s words. Our family is of blessed blood.

  Teresa was pure. Her blood must be kept unsullied. Husbands were suggested. His sister even had a notion of a suitor. But Blackstone couldn’t let her marry outside the family. Not to a dirty half-breed. He refused to see their family’s money leave their estate.

  After soldiers had killed Blackstone’s parents, there was no one alive who knew his sister’s face. And Teresa had been raised to such total obedience, she hardly even thought to object.

  Before coming to Blackstone’s estate, the soldiers had passed through a nearby village. It had been easy to find a murdered girl. Blackstone had burned the face of the corpse, in case it was recognised.

  After burying the body as his sister’s, Blackstone collected her dowry as the natural heir. Then he’d passed it off as his new wife’s money and bought himself great favour in the Sealed Knot.

  Blackstone’s every sense was alert. Straight away he heard it. He allowed himself a cold smile. Sally Oakley’s son was in Blackstone’s best fortification. All the power of England would soon be his.

  Chapter 141

  ‘Blackstone married his sister,’ breathed Lily. ‘And hid her away from the world.’

  ‘Old noble families marry close to keep the bloodline,’ said Charlie. ‘Perhaps war twisted Blackstone. He used his sister’s dowry to fight the war,’ he added.

  ‘But the Royalists lost,’ said Lily.

  ‘And his sister went mad with their crime,’ said Charlie. The puzzle was unravelling. ‘That’s why Teresa scrubbed out the portrait. It was her own picture. Blackstone must have had a new picture drawn. Of Teresa as his wife.’

  ‘So his sister didn’t die,’ said Lily. ‘She became someone else.’

  ‘And Teresa turned to witchcraft,’ said Charlie. ‘After everything she’d sacrificed, losing the war must have been the bitterest blow.’

  ‘But it’s not Teresa’s and Thomas’s marriage papers which were hidden,’ said Lily. ‘They both witnessed a marriage far more powerful.’

  ‘We must find her chest,’ said Charlie, tearing his eyes away from the ghoulish jars. ‘He laid her out in a wedding dress. It must be near.’

  The candles flickered as they scanned around. Dresses were hung at the circle edge like a parade of ghostly women with shoes tucked neatly beneath.

  ‘There?’ suggested Lily, pointing to a small leather box.

  Charlie shook his head.

  ‘It’s large. We are missing something.’

  His eyes scanned the broken and bloodied things, the little vermin poppets. Suddenly there was a sinister clicking, like a pistol being cocked.

  He turned sharply, expecting to see Blackstone’s looming form at the edge of the circle. There was nothing there and Charlie turned back in confusion. It must have been the sound of the fire, he realised. Stone shrieking and twisting in the wider cathedral. He looked overhead and saw the wooden surrounds of the little chapel were smoking. They needed to move quickly.

  Charlie looked back to the corpse and froze.

  Teresa moved.

  He blinked, staring at the corpse. Lily was investigating a pile of woven branches strewn near the remains.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Charlie’s voice was tight.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She moved,’ said Charlie, pointing. ‘Teresa’s body. Her mouth is wider open. Like she’s trying to tell us something.’

  Lily crossed the narrow space and laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘Charlie,’ she said softly. ‘She’s dead. She can’t hurt you now. The dead don’t move.’

  ‘I could have sworn . . .’

  ‘It’s your imagination,’ said Lily. ‘You were scared of her as a boy. Now you imagine her greater than she is.’

  Charlie felt his heartbeat slow. His gaze settled on Teresa’s remains. She looked less frightening now. The witch who haunted his childhood was a woman who had undergone horrors. Something in the dark seemed to whisper to him that his mother felt the same.

  A thought occurred to Charlie. Teresa was an ordinary woman, so there would be no grand altar to place her on. His eyes dropped to the plinth on which she lay. It was covered in a plain wool cloth. But the fabric did not quite fall completely to the floor. A tell-tale glimmer of metal winked out.

  ‘The chest,’ said Charlie quietly. ‘She lays on it. It’s under Teresa.’

  Chapter 142

  For a few seconds Charlie and Lily stood looking at the covered chest.

  ‘If you touch her,’ boomed a voice, ‘you will be sorry for it.’

  They both started around. Blackstone’s huge bulk barred the exit from the crazed nest of Teresa’s possessions. His mass of plague scars glinted in the candlelight, bald and livid against the remaining thick black hair.

  Blackstone held a pistol in his hand.


  ‘Tobias’s son,’ he said quietly. ‘After all these years.’

  Lily glanced at Charlie.

  ‘Sally Oakley hid my papers well,’ continued Blackstone. ‘And now you have led me right to them.’

  He aimed the pistol at Charlie. ‘The key.’

  Charlie looked up to the burning ceiling. The chapel had its own wooden surround that had caught and was sending up tongues of flame.

  Blackstone tilted his head, keeping the pistol trained on his quarry. Amusement flickered on his bloated features.

  ‘Fear,’ he said, ‘is a useful thing. I can predict your thoughts.’

  ‘It’s not the only predictor,’ said Charlie. ‘When fire comes, people also save the things they love.’

  Charlie ducked and threw a well-judged kick. It cracked into the wooden wall, sending a blazing shower of splinters down into the crypt.

  Blackstone’s arms flew up. Then he lunged to where his wife lay.

  Charlie grabbed Lily, pulling them towards the entrance to Teresa’s den. He scooped up a fragment of burning rafter.

  ‘The papers,’ he said to Lily. ‘They must be destroyed.’

  The sparks had died harmlessly away and Blackstone swung the pistol. He hesitated.

  Charlie was holding the long splinter of wood, blowing the glowing end to a flame.

  Blackstone glanced at the open gunpowder kegs, then back to Charlie.

  ‘That box holds powers,’ said Blackstone. ‘Powers you cannot imagine. Powers I thought were lost until you led me to them.’

  ‘I don’t need to imagine,’ said Charlie. ‘I know.’

  Blackstone smiled. ‘If you knew what those papers held . . .’ he began.

  Charlie watched Blackstone’s face.

  ‘It was the exiled Charles Stuart who got married, all those years ago,’ said Charlie. ‘To his first mistress. Lucy Walter.’

  Charlie paused.

  ‘Those papers make Lucy England’s Queen and Monmouth the legitimate heir,’ he added. ‘A commoner into royalty. Lead into gold.’

  Something like fear skirted across Blackstone’s face.

  ‘You hoped to gain favour with the King,’ said Charlie. ‘You and Torr betrayed your brotherhood by helping the King marry. The dowries, the political allegiances that make a throne. All gone. Destroyed. They must have hated you. You’d given the Kingdom they fought to restore, for a whore.’