by Jo Macauley
“John!” she exclaimed.
Beth hadn’t seen her friend – and fellow spy – John Turner for some weeks. Unbeknownst to all who knew her – including Maisie – as well as being a celebrated actress, Beth was also secretly working in the service of the King. She had been recruited by mysterious spymaster Sir Alan Strange, and had been leading a double life ever since. John, too, had become an undercover spy. He’d shown great prowess, having become inadvertently involved in one of Beth’s missions to stop an attempt on the King’s life. She eyed him closely now, wondering if he had come bearing news of an assignment...
“What brings you here?” she said, glancing at Maisie warily.
It looked as if he’d run all the way from his home in Shadwell, and he paused for a moment to recover his breath. “Moll told me you’d be in here. I-I need to speak to you about an important matter...”
“Uh, just a moment.” Beth turned to her young friend. “Maisie, we’re upstage, facing downstage. Stage left is that side, and stage right is the other. I want you to pretend Mister Huntingdon is giving you instructions, and then walk from one area to the other. Remind yourself inwardly what part of the stage you are on. And I want you to walk with your back straight as if you are carrying a tray of pies without dropping them. Can you do that while I talk to John?”
“I’ll certainly give it a try!”
“That’s the spirit!” Beth took John into the room next door, which was thankfully empty. “Sit down, John,” she said quietly. “What is it?”
“’Tis my sister Polly. She has disappeared a-and it’s all my fault!”
“Take a deep breath,” Beth said, holding up one hand. “What do you mean?”
“Well, she likes to sit outside watching the other children play, and I usually come to take her indoors after work...”
“And when you arrived today she was no longer there?”
“Yes! I was about to hurry home to tend to her, but I was obliged to remain at the Navy Board. There are big plans to build a new warship, the biggest in the navy yet. It is to be named after the King, and he is visiting our offices soon to see the plans, so we had to work late. When I finally got home, she was nowhere to be seen.”
Beth swallowed. “My goodness. But you must not blame yourself, John, I’m sure she’ll be found soon enough,” she said, trying her best to sound encouraging.
“But that isn’t all...”
“Oh?”
“I was talking to the children she was playing with, and one of them said he saw a stranger standing in the shadows of the inn across the alley, watching them play.”
“But men can often be found outside inns. Waiting for a friend, or waiting for—”
“He was short and stocky – and he was missing a finger on his left hand,” John said grimly.
Beth had been trying to play down John’s fears for his sister, but now she couldn’t hide her own shock at hearing this news. “Groby?”
Edmund Groby was a renowned anti-royalist thug, who’d been involved in more than one attempt on the King’s life as the henchman of the criminal mastermind and conspirator Sir Henry Vale. He had a distinct gait and an ominously missing finger...
“I fear he’s back to take revenge for my role in foiling his plots in the past. I fear he’s going to kill my baby sister!” John was ashen, slumped in the chair.
Beth shook her head slowly as she sifted through what John had told her. “If it was simply revenge, with all the other children gone he could have easily killed her there and then, with no witnesses. There is more to this. He might be an evil man but everything he does is in the cause of a republic and against the King; as far as we know he is not a killer of little girls.”
“Then why take her?”
“I’ll wager he wants something in return for her safety.”
John was not reassured. “If it’s something we cannot give him, he will kill her!”
Beth straightened her back. “The main thing is that Polly is almost certainly still alive. We have beaten Groby and his gang before, and we can do it again.”
Chapter Two - Ransom
“Knowing Sir Alan Strange,” said Beth, “he’s probably already aware Groby’s back in England.”
Having made her excuses, she’d left the Peacock and Pie with John and they were on their way to the bookshop of a mysterious man named Joad on Ludgate Hill. They needed to report to their spymaster urgently – but meetings with him were only on his terms, and to arrange one at such short notice they first had to visit Joad. The shop was set back a little from the rest of the buildings, and seemed like a forgotten remnant of centuries past. It was crooked, leaning to one side as if about to fall against its neighbour, and with little windows like staring eyes defying anyone to come too close. Beth had never seen anyone enter the shop to buy a book, and something about the place had always made her feel strangely ill at ease.
Joad himself was a peculiar, surly little man with long, greasy hair. He never smiled or looked Beth in the eye. When they entered today he was writing something in a ledger, but as soon as they entered he dropped his quill and slammed the book shut. A cloud of dust momentarily obscured his face and he didn’t greet them. Beth knew protocol meant they had to speak first, and it had to be in coded words.
“I’m looking for a play by Fitzangelo...”
Joad grunted to himself before replying. “I have no works by that author. But there is a seller near St Bride’s who might be able to help. Be quick about it, though – he closes his shop at six.”
With that, Joad opened up his ledger, dipped his quill in the ink, and resumed his writing. Both Beth and John knew what his words meant, and without even bothering to reply they left the shop.
“The Bridewell Burial Ground at 6 p.m.?” John murmured as they set off.
But before he had even finished getting his words out, the bells of nearby St Clement’s began to strike the hour of six.
“Yes. And Strange will only wait a quarter of an hour there. If we don’t arrive by the time St Bride’s strikes again at quarter past, he will leave,” said Beth, quickening her pace.
* * *
The burial ground was to the rear of the grim quadrangle of buildings comprising a workhouse for the poor and a House of Correction known as Bridewell. Beth and John first headed for the river Fleet that flowed through the city from the north into the Thames – at least it usually did. After the summer drought it was little more than a smelly ditch with swarms of midges buzzing over it. Beth covered her mouth and nose with her hand, and they hurriedly took a short cut down Dorset Street. The place where the paupers of the area were buried was enclosed by crumbling walls and accessed by a rusting iron gate. It creaked as if in warning when John pushed it open. The high red-brick walls kept most of the sunlight out. What little light did enter the burial ground sent long fingers of shadow running off the rows of gravestones and the withered trees in the centre. Beth cast her eyes all around the area, scrutinizing stone and wooden grave markers: uncared for, names fading, many leaning at crazy angles. She saw no sign of Strange. She and John walked cautiously along the cracked, sun-baked path towards the trees.
“He’s not here,” said John. “This place give me the creeps – let’s go back and wait at the gate.”
“It must be almost quarter past six. He should be here – unless he’s given up waiting and gone already.”
There was a sudden commotion behind the nearest headstone. John sprang back and Beth grabbed his arm in alarm, until they both saw the pigeon they’d startled flapping indignantly into the branches of one of the trees.
Beth’s heart was pounding, and they both laughed nervously at their reactions.
“We should go, see if there’s more news,” John said agitatedly after a couple of minutes.
“You can go home once you’ve told me the purpose of this urgent meeting,” came a deep voice. Spymaster Sir Alan Strange stepped out from behind one of the trees, his craggy face looking almost as if it
were part of the gnarled trunk itself.
“We think Groby is back in England,” Beth began, wasting no time. To her surprise, Strange’s expression didn’t change and he merely nodded.
“I have had two other sightings in the past week from my sources – but he has proved elusive so far,” he said.
“We think he’s up to something,” John added anxiously.
“Now that the worst of the plague is over, the King has returned to Whitehall. I have seen to it that there is extra protection for him – both seen, and unseen.”
“But there’s something else,” John persisted. “M-my little sister ... has vanished, and I’m almost certain that a man fitting Groby’s description was behind it.”
Strange’s features darkened as he considered this for a moment. “This is troubling ... But, John, until we are certain of what has occurred with your sister, we must assume nothing, and we must act with extreme caution where Groby is concerned. His re-emergence and your sister’s disappearance may be unrelated. However difficult it may be for you, the protection of the King’s life must always be your main goal, and we must to nothing to jeopardize that.”
Beth could sense John’s growing frustration. “Sir, it seems unlikely it could be anyone other than Groby. The child has only recently been taken. If we act quickly—”
Strange looked at them both sternly. “If her disappearance is related to another plot against His Majesty, then if you solve that, you will doubtless find the girl. Your assignment is clear. You must not alert the enemy to our investigations, but you must focus on finding out more about what Groby has planned. Protecting the King should be foremost in your priorities. I trust I have made myself clear.”
With that, he strode briskly past them without a backwards glance, sending more pigeons flapping in panic for the tops of the walls. Beth and John watched in silence as he slipped through the gate and vanished into Dorset Street.
John shook his head. “It’s as if Polly’s life is of no importance to him,” he said through clenched teeth.
Beth placed a hand on his arm, and held his gaze. “You must remember his mission is to keep the King safe. If plotters succeeded in killing the King, the whole country will be in turmoil once more. But he’s probably right – the two things could be linked so stopping one would stop the other. And after all,” she said reassuringly, “he didn’t say we couldn’t search for Polly.”
He said nothing, but smiling and looking at her gratefully, he reached over and squeezed her hand.
“I’ll be with you all the way, John. I know you would do the same for me,” Beth whispered.
“And more.” He looked shyly at the ground for a moment before taking a deep breath. I need to get home to Shadwell and find out what news.”
“I’ll come with you,” Beth said. “Let’s go.”
* * *
From the Tower Beth and John took the river path, where the cooler air beside the water made the atmosphere seem just a little fresher, despite the powerful stench of human and animal pollution. It was a couple of miles to Shadwell, past the wharves and warehouses along Thames Street. Men with barrels on carts were spraying water on the road in a vain attempt to stop the traffic throwing up the clouds of dust. Despite their efforts, it still drifted into houses and the eyes and noses of travellers.
When they got to Shadwell itself, John’s friends, family and neighbours were roaming the streets knocking on doors and calling Polly’s name. In spite of the heat, Beth pulled her light cloak hood over her head inconspicuously. Her growing popularity on the stage meant she was more easily recognized, and given the real, espionage-related association she and John had, she decided she’d rather not draw too much attention to herself. As they approached the Pelican Stairs at the water’s edge a small boy came running towards them, and Beth hung back a little.
“We still can’t find her anywhere!” he told John, alarm and anguish etched into his young features.
“Is Father out searching?” John asked quickly, and Beth realized this must be one of his brothers.
“He was, but he’s at home comforting Mother now. She’s mightily troubled...”
“Keep looking,” John told the little boy, then glanced back at Beth and gestured for her to follow. He led them down Bloodbone Alley towards his family’s little house, and Beth could hear a woman sobbing even before they got to the door. Beth waited just outside, knowing she shouldn’t break cover to meet John’s family, much though she wanted to offer them comfort. She listened closely.
“John! Any news? Has anyone found anything?”
“Sorry, Father. No news so far.”
Beth heard Mr Turner sigh. “I’m afraid we have some, son.”
“What do you mean?” John asked anxiously.
“This was pushed under our door,” his father replied in a shaky voice. “It’s a ransom note.”
Chapter Three - Contact
“Give me the note, Father. Some of my contacts, uh, at the Navy Board ... may be able to help with this. I’ll be back.”
John hurried outside, his face pale. Beth gave a low whistle to attract his attention to where she’d been waiting. Their eyes met worriedly, but they hurried away from the house a little before Beth reached out her hand for the note.
“This is good quality paper,” she commented, turning it over in her hands.
“But the writing doesn’t look like an educated hand. It’s all in capitals.”
“Probably to disguise the handwriting.”
Beth turned her attentions to the message itself:
YOU NEED POLLY. WE NEED TO GET TO THE KING. IF WE DON'T GET WHAT WE NEED, YOU WILL NEVER GET WHAT YOU NEED. INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW.
John swallowed hard. “This is what I feared. They mean to kill the King and my sister!”
“All is not lost, John. We have outwitted Groby before, and we can do it again. With Polly being so young, perhaps they won’t restrain her as tightly as they would someone older. Perhaps ... perhaps she will be able to slip through some open window and run until she finds—”
“No, Beth,” John said sadly. “Polly can’t run anywhere. She got the leg-wasting disease when she was three. She can only walk with the sticks that were found where she had been sitting in the street, and even with those she can’t go very far or fast.”
Beth sighed. “Well, surely Strange must listen to us now. This note is proof that Polly’s kidnapping is clearly linked to a plot against the King. If he helps us track her, the trail will also lead to us to the conspirators.”
John brightened a little. “You’re right.”
“I doubt, though, whether we would be able to arrange to see Strange again tonight.”
John looked out at the gathering darkness, and his face fell. “But there’s no time to lose!”
Beth reached out a hand and rested it on John’s shoulder. “I know it’s difficult, but we’ll have to wait until morning. You see what they’ve said in the note – there will be more of their instructions to follow. They won’t harm Polly yet.”
John nodded. “I had better get back.”
Beth nodded, and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I shall return at first light...”
* * *
It was a long and troubled night for John. He feared that in the urgency to find Groby his sister’s whereabouts might be overlooked. What if he had passed her onto someone else? They might be seeking Groby out in one part of London with Polly somewhere else completely, her life hanging by a thread...
He drifted in and out of sleep, his mind like a whirlpool of possibilities. At one point he heard the bellman’s cry of “Past four of the clock and a warm, dry morning,” but he must have dozed off again, because the next thing he knew he was aware of footsteps echoing in the empty alley below.
At first, he wasn’t sure if it was just the product of his foggy, half-waking mind. But then he heard them again, coming to a shuffling halt below his window. He threw his bedcovers back and jumped out of bed, padding as
quickly and quietly as he could down the stairs. As he hurried through the living room a flash of white at the foot of the door caught his eye, and he was just in time to see a letter being pushed under the gap. Ignoring it, he quickly undid the bolt and threw the door open, rushing out into the street.
Two men were striding away down Bloodbone Alley. Without a thought for his own safety, John raced up and grabbed one of them by the sleeve. The man spun round, yanking his arm free and lashing out with his other fist.
In the darkness, John never even saw the punch coming. He just felt an eye-watering crunch against his face, followed by the warm trickle of blood flowing from his nose, dripping from his chin and onto the cobbles as the men disappeared into the gloom of the morning.
Chapter Four - Pirates’ Dock
“John! What happened?” Beth exclaimed, seeing his reddened eye and the dark crusts of blood in his nostrils. She was shocked to see her friend’s appearance when he answered her gentle knock at the door.
“I couldn’t sleep ... I heard someone outside and went to see, and got thumped for my troubles...”
“Are you all right?”
“I’ve had worse in fights at school.”
“Was it Groby?” she said urgently.
He shook his head. “Unfortunately not. Though I’m sure I would be in a worse state if it had been.”
Beth sighed and told him to go inside and bring a washcloth and basin. They moved a little distance away from the house, and sat down on some stone steps while she cleaned the dried blood from his face. As she worked, John reached into his pocket and produced a piece of paper that looked similar to one they’d received the previous day.
“They were delivering another message?”
He handed it to her and Beth put the cloth down to read it. There was a simple, child-like drawing of a doll at the top. Beneath that was writing in the same anonymous capital letters as the first message:
PROOF THAT WE HAVE HER. BE AT PIRATES' DOCK AT EIGHT OF THE CLOCK WITH A WAY TO REACH THE KING. FAIL AND THE GIRL DIES.