by C. S. Quinn
But Bolly only shook his head. ‘She’s not like the other whores,’ he said. ‘She didn’t go by choice.’
‘Don’t be soft, Bolly,’ said Repent. ‘They’d all be whores, the women, if we let ’em. Big black holes that can never be filled, ain’t they?’
‘Maybe,’ said Bolly agreeably.
‘Don’t forget your apron,’ said Repent, nodding to where the blue apprentice uniform hung. ‘’S your ticket to the best butter-box in the city.’ He mimed a circle over his groin.
Bolly shook his head. ‘We don’t actually get to do the whores. We just tear the brothels up.’
Repent handed Bolly his apron and sniffed. ‘Smell that? There’s somethin’ different in the air. Whores ’ave bin getting above themselves, on account of the King flaunting his mistresses. The boys are all talking about a proper protest. Once we’re inside the brothels, who’s to say what happened and what didn’t?’
‘What’s your father got to say about it?’ Bolly asked, taking in Repent’s expression uneasily. ‘I thought old Praise-God-locksmith had a mission for us.’
Repent nodded enthusiastically. ‘We’re to be soldiers,’ he said, voice ringing with pride. ‘Someone’s let something slip, Bolly,’ he added conspiratorially. ‘There was a document, lost in legal paperwork for all these years. One of the Royalists who smuggled free the Lord and Lady confessed on his way to the noose. Left a clue. There’s a dress, left in a brothel, that would summon the Lord and Lady.’
‘Which brothel?’
‘That’s the great joke of it,’ said Repent. ‘The old Royalist spies would have known which whorehouse.’ He paused. ‘But those men died. My father hunted and executed ’em all.’
‘There’s a thousand brothels in London,’ said Bolly. ‘More.’
‘Then we’ll have to knock over all of ’em,’ grinned Repent.
‘The Lord and Lady,’ said Bolly thoughtfully. ‘You really think they can be found?’
‘My father says so,’ opined Repent. ‘They’ve been lying low, but their sinful stench rises like a devil from hell. ’S why the King’s court is full ’a whores.’
‘You sound like him,’ said Bolly. ‘Old Praise-God.’
‘He’s been telling me things,’ said Repent. ‘About how Cromwell captured the Lord and Lady, had them imprisoned in an iron cell. Queen Mab and the Elf King.’
‘Royalists smuggled them free,’ supplied Bolly, ‘and the country fell. You told me already.’ He rubbed sleep from his eyes and threw on his apron. ‘Let’s go to Saffron Hill,’ he said. ‘Brothels there got wine. I need to wake up.’
‘Nah,’ said Repent. His eyes slid to Bolly’s purse, where the masterpiece lock was stored. ‘My father says we start in Wapping Docks. The sailor’s place. Ratcliffe Highway.’
Chapter 5
Charlie stood back as a pack of market traders from nearby Covent Garden rolled a barrel of beer across the stained floorboards. They were pointing enthusiastically at the badly painted scenery and perilous stage of loose-nailed planks. Several deeply rouged girls sat on the edge, legs dangling.
‘It were worth bringing a king back to the throne,’ opined one man happily as a skirt raised and dropped, ‘if just to see the playhouses reopen.’
Charlie slid into the shadows and watched. He called to mind Lynette’s fan and its crabbed seating plan. Something about how his mind worked allowed him to hold on to pictures easily and he scanned the rows of the theatre methodically, matching professions.
Charlie began systematically discounting faces. A pair of gaudy women, a gingerbread seller attempting to get his large cart inside.
Not you, not you.
Charlie hesitated. Behind a heavily armed wine seller he’d seen a figure moving with a little too much purpose.
Could be . . .
The man was smaller than Charlie had expected, and neatly dressed in a buff-coloured coat and matching trousers, with a powdered wig. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder, as though aware of being watched. He looked to be heading to the part of the theatre where the lawyers sat.
The light above shifted suddenly, and Charlie took an instinctive step back. Two chandeliers were swaying, their heavy load of candles fluttering as staff conducted a final wick-trimming. When Charlie looked back the figure had vanished. He sucked his scarred lip in annoyance. His eyes ranged the theatre, panning this way and that.
He saw him again near the vizard sellers and painted fans.
Found you.
Charlie watched his mark slide free from the crush of theatregoers and moved quickly to head him off.
The man removed a pistol from his belt and continued towards the lawyers’ seating. He’d not taken two steps when Charlie appeared at his side.
‘Easy, friend,’ said Charlie pleasantly. ‘What need for the gun?’
The man started in alarm. Charlie’s hand clamped on his.
‘It’s not as though,’ added Charlie, freeing the pistol from its owner with an expert flick of his wrist, ‘you could discharge a weapon in a theatre and escape unharmed. During Lent you’re liable to start a riot.’
The man watched helplessly as Charlie examined his weapon.
‘A pistol is loud,’ concluded Charlie, ‘for such a purpose. Even in the noise of a theatre.’
‘I . . .’ The man was frowning furiously. ‘I only bear arms for my own protection,’ he returned huffily. ‘You have a reputation. Although,’ he added, appraising Charlie’s wiry frame, skinny legs and bare feet, ‘I thought you’d be bigger. London’s famous thief taker.’
‘I’m fast,’ said Charlie.
‘But with no head for business,’ said the man. ‘I might have been a paying client. Do you treat all meetings with such discourtesy?’
‘You’re a special case,’ replied Charlie. ‘Percy Berry. City lawyer at Temple Bar. Of good family. A very proper gentleman by all accounts. And your new wife once meant a lot to me. Maria,’ he concluded, surprised to find his voice stuck a little at her name. ‘Is she why you came here armed with a pistol?’
Percy coloured. Then he swallowed and, to Charlie’s discomfort, his reserve melted away. ‘Where is Maria? Have you seen her? How is she?’
There was a pause. ‘What do you mean?’ asked Charlie. ‘How should I know? She’s your wife now, isn’t she?’
Percy seemed to slump a little. ‘Maria never arrived at the church on our wedding day,’ he said. ‘And I thought you must know where she was.’
Chapter 6
In Wapping, sailors thronged in packs, weaving drunkenly, arms draped around one another’s shoulders. Ratcliffe Highway was lined with brick houses, narrow and high, with groups of scantily clad girls whooping and beckoning from the windows.
Every other building bore a makeshift sign advertising sex. There were broom handles draped with underskirts, clusters of hanging dildos and inventive icons to suggest the speciality of the house.
Clancy and Viola sat in the first-floor window of an old town house, bare legs dangling from under their bright skirts. Hanging next to them was a swinging sign – a large gilded lock with a suggestively spurting key.
‘Her,’ Clancy pointed to a sad-eyed girl selling lucky charms. ‘She’s got it.’
‘No!’ Viola was horrified. She moved closer to look. ‘She’s . . . How old?’
‘’Leven, maybe twelve,’ said Clancy, bouncing her legs against the window. ‘Saw ’er buyin’ pox-salve.’ Clancy was an ex-pickpocket with a weasel face. Sometimes she whored, sometimes she stole. Mostly, she drank. She eyed Viola’s lovely face: Italian with dark eyes, creamy skin and a straight Roman nose.
‘Dontcha have little whores in Italy?’ asked Clancy.
‘Maybe,’ said Viola. ‘It makes me sad to think it.’ She watched the small girl vanish into a jumble of stalls selling smutty trinkets, bootleg rum and contraceptives of dubious merit.
‘Thas right,’ said Clancy airily. ‘I was forgettin’. You came to be an actress, dincha? Betcha never
expected to end up in a dockside whorehouse.’ She cast a careless glance into the room behind her. Partly clothed women sat on the stained floorboards, drinking pottage from bowls. Two children were squabbling over a broken wooden sword.
‘I won’t be here long,’ said Viola, watching the street.
Clancy picked at a scabbed fleabite and adjusted her plunging neckline. ‘’S what we all say when we start,’ she said philosophically. ‘Always make ’em wear the pig gut, don’t let ’em drop anchor in Bum Bay.’ She waved a hand to the street to illustrate the inevitable shedding of such precious affectations.
‘You think it’s true, what they say about our mistress?’ asked Viola. ‘You think she press-gangs men?’
‘I know she does,’ said Clancy. ‘She’s a hard woman, Damaris. Sold for a slave, weren’t she? She got no pity for men. ’S what makes her such a good madam.’
Clancy’s eyes settled on two drunk men, recently docked from a long voyage, judging by their ragged clothes.
‘You boys sin the world?’ she bellowed. ‘Where yers bin?’
They turned to look, taking in Clancy and Viola; their identically dressed hair, curled in fashionable ringlets, the thick rouge on their pretty young faces and the expensive skirts hitched around their knees.
‘Everywhere!’ shouted one.
‘’S that so?’ Clancy grinned, preparing for her favourite line. ‘I betcha ain’t never sin the famous bearded oyster!’ And she lifted her skirts high and spread her legs.
The sailors whistled appreciatively.
‘It don’t bite!’ said Clancy. ‘Come find out for yerselfs. I’ll have you, blondie, and my friend will sit on your friend’s face. She’s Italian. Exotic. Half a guinea each.’
They laughed, turning away.
‘A shilling each then,’ bartered Clancy. ‘Mouth fuck. Hands where you like.’
She began pulling down her low-cut dress. But the men were already walking away. A pair of bare-breasted women walking arm in arm accosted them, pulling them enticingly towards a doorway. Viola watched in fascination as one of the men peeled off with the cheaply dressed street girls, but the other crossed the street and approached an old hag who was raising and lowering her tattered skirts over withered legs.
‘Mamma mia,’ breathed Viola, as the sailor pushed money into the liver-spotted hand and began unbuttoning his breeches. ‘Who knew?’
‘Nothin’ surprises me anymore,’ said Clancy. ‘Dirty bastards the lot of ’em.’ She took out a leather flask of rum and offered it. Viola shook her head and Clancy upended it, coughed, then drank some more.
‘Not too much,’ winced Viola, as Clancy drained the flask. ‘They’ll try for all sorts if you stink of rum.’
‘My head hurts from last night,’ said Clancy, wiping her mouth. ‘I need to take the edge off.’
A small girl appeared behind them and climbed into Viola’s lap.
‘Hello, darling,’ said Viola, wrapping her arms around the little body and kissing her. ‘Is your mama in the bedroom again?’
‘Get out the window!’ hissed Clancy, shooing the little girl away. ‘You want these men to think you’re for business?’
‘No.’ The girl was reluctantly moving back.
‘No,’ said Clancy fiercely. ‘And you never will. A princess you’ll be. Eatin’ sugar . . .’ She stopped, staring up the road. At the far end of Ratcliffe Highway was a faint sheen of rising dust. As though a great body of people were moving towards them.
There was a roar from the street below.
Clancy’s mouth dropped open. ‘Apprentices,’ she said, eyes wide with fear.
‘I thought they came every Lent?’ Viola craned her head to see. ‘Don’t we just bolt the door?’ She took in the shapes emerging from the dust cloud, then drew back aghast.
‘Ring the bell,’ said Clancy, scooping up the little girl.
The door was flung open. The tall figure of Damaris Page strode through the doorway. She wore a neat pink taffeta dress and her tightly curled dark hair was divided in a razor-sharp parting. The edge of an old slave brand could be seen at her shoulder, pink and raised against her shining ebony skin.
‘Apprentices!’ gabbled Clancy, holding the child tight to her chest. ‘Outside. More than I’ve ever seen.’
Damaris nodded, taking in Viola’s terrified face. She glanced towards the window and her brown eyes grew round. Damaris moved to a strongbox in the corner of the room. She flung open the lid and lifted free a blunderbuss, her tall frame holding it easily.
A chant had struck up. An ugly chorus about whores and His Majesty’s pleasure.
‘I’ve never seen them like this,’ said Clancy. ‘Those men mean murder.’
Chapter 7
Charlie and Percy sat in the raised seating of the Birdcage Theatre. Several food and ale sellers had already passed. Charlie had bought them both a beer and a pig knuckle.
Percy was eyeing Charlie’s crooked nose and scarred lip. ‘Maria told me you usually attract reprobate aristocrats or poor Londoners hoping for a favour.’ Percy’s gaze drifted to the empty stage and back to the thickening crowd.
‘And yet here you are.’ Charlie worked to keep his tone neutral.
Now Charlie had the opportunity to observe Percy better he understood even less what Maria saw in him. Everything about him seemed determinedly average. His height, his thin build. His washed-out eyes, caught between brown and green, the neutral colour of his buff suit. He had no charisma to speak of and seemed unfamiliar with London crowds, habitually checking his purse and starting at unfamiliar noises.
Percy eyed his pig knuckle suspiciously and ventured a tentative bite.
‘You’ve never been to a theatre before?’ guessed Charlie, watching him negotiate his food.
Percy swallowed a chunk of sinew with effort. ‘I was to be married. I’ve no interest in such entertainments.’ He toyed uncomfortably with a crucifix at his neck.
‘But you’ve ventured south of the river,’ Charlie supplied, watching Percy’s face. ‘Once would have been enough. The illegal playhouses shocked you.’
Percy was silent.
‘The shin has less gristle,’ said Charlie helpfully. ‘People mainly buy them so they might have a bone left to throw at the actors. Same with the orange peel.’
‘The Watch won’t believe me,’ said Percy, looking ahead to the stage. ‘They think Maria decided not to marry me. But she would never have left me standing at the altar . . .’
‘You’re certain?’ said Charlie.
Percy reddened.
‘I’m a thief taker,’ continued Charlie, unable to help himself. ‘So I notice things. Your stockings have been cheaply laundered. And all that powder does not quite disguise your periwig is not horse hair. Does Maria know she marries a lawyer in straitened circumstances?’
‘I am of well enough fortunes,’ snapped Percy. ‘She will not want for anything.’
But you haven’t told her everything, decided Charlie, assessing his reaction.
Percy huffed, seeing Charlie’s expression. ‘We quarrelled,’ he admitted. ‘The last time I saw her.’ He seemed annoyed rather than concerned.
The orchestra struck up a tune and their conversation was momentarily halted. A few people began to applaud. Lynette sashayed onto the stage to approving hoots and cheers.
Percy shook his head, watching the painted women stalking the crowd, rubbing up against wealthy men, laughing a little too loudly. ‘Actresses.’ He shook his head again. ‘I would never,’ he concluded haughtily, ‘let my wife act.’ He took in the tumbledown playhouse with a shudder.
Charlie got up to leave. He was a little drunk, he realised. Playhouse ale was stronger than he remembered. ‘If Maria doesn’t want to marry you, it’s her business,’ he added. Though as he said the words he knew Maria wasn’t the kind of woman to run. She would have faced Percy and told him the truth. It was just how she was.
‘Wait.’ Percy spoke in a sudden rush. ‘I think Maria may hav
e found out something she shouldn’t. Something that has put her life at risk.’
Charlie stayed silent, waiting for Percy to continue.
‘She transcribed my documents for a time,’ continued Percy. ‘Legal things. She only has a woman’s understanding, of course, but she has a good hand.’
Charlie bit back a retort. The Maria he knew was easily clever enough to understand legal documents.
‘There was an old confession,’ continued Percy. ‘A Royalist condemned to death at the end of the war had told his crimes to the judge. I saw nothing unusual in it, but Maria thought it contained some lost clue of great importance. She believed it would lead to some people who went missing during the war. A lord and lady.’ He coughed hastily. ‘I didn’t think it fitting for a woman to be interested in such things and I told her so.’
‘This was your quarrel?’ guessed Charlie.
‘In part. But now Maria is missing,’ he concluded guiltily. ‘As I say, I think she might have . . . pursued an interest. Then you asked to meet with me,’ Percy concluded. ‘And I assumed she’d come to you for help.’
‘I?’ Charlie was momentarily thrown. ‘It was you who requested we meet in the Birdcage.’
‘No,’ said Percy. ‘A boy came to Temple Bar with a message.’
Fear flashed through Charlie. He grabbed Percy’s surprisingly bony arm. ‘We need to leave,’ he said.
‘Unhand me!’ demanded Percy, his body rigid. ‘How dare you . . .’
Charlie swung to face him, gripping the thin arm tight. ‘Maria is the only link between us,’ he said. ‘She is missing. And someone has summoned us both to the most dangerous theatre in London. Half the audience would cut your throat for a shilling. Do you really want to wait around and discover why we’ve both been tricked here?’
A sudden mechanical thud echoed around the theatre. They turned to see a shadowy figure had dropped above the stage and swung suspended there.
‘Something is wrong,’ said Charlie. ‘The swing of the figure is wrong. A person wouldn’t drop like that, unless . . .’
A high-pitched wail confirmed his worst fear. Lynette was clutching both hands over her mouth. And now screams began shooting up from those nearest to the stage.
