by C. S. Quinn
Charlie gave him a tight nod and sidestepped neatly into the crowd.
‘I will remember my debt to you,’ the man called after him, as Charlie slid effortlessly through the muddle of drinkers. He still had the problem of his rent to solve, and he doubted this particular favour would ever be repaid. Charlie admired the man’s family loyalty. But those soft-hearted enough to stay and nurse relatives, stood no chance at all.
There were rumours that turnpikes and barricades were soon to be set up, preventing any from leaving London, and Thames Street had already been sealed off as a ghetto of disease. Reports were drifting in that parts of the east were now almost abandoned.
As the summer heat closed the plague had begun flexing its muscles, snatching up district after district and shaking them free of life.
Chapter Two
The Bucket of Blood landlord took one look at Charlie’s face and reached for his special barrel.
‘The strong beer?’
Charlie nodded, waving his newly-earned two pennies at the landlord. The certificate had at least bought him enough to pay off some of his drink tab.
The landlord’s long dark wig swayed, as he heaved a small barrel onto the battered bar.
‘What of that spinster last night, Charlie?’ he inquired conversationally. ‘I’m told she stayed until the small hours, hoping for your favour.’
‘The one with the squint?’
The landlord’s brow furrowed, and he straightened his moth-eaten lace absentmindedly. Since the King’s return, he dressed in tribute. A habit which had earned him the nickname Merrie, after the Merry Monarch.
‘She is rich Charlie. Five goats and her own cauldron,’ pressed Merrie. ‘You would be set up for life.’
‘I am not of a mind to marry for money.’
Merrie was shaking his head, and his wig shifted up to reveal a neat row of flea bites. ‘So many fine girls who’d have you,’ he said, ‘and you always choose the difficult ones.’
‘The difficult ones are more fun.’
The landlord gave the expansive shrug of a man who didn’t care enough to question an obvious idiocy further. He’d been running the Bucket for long enough to choose his debates.
Charlie took three deep swigs of beer, emptying his cup, and refilled it for a second time. The ale was helping ease his hangover, but he still had the issue of his rent. His mind flicked over the problem.
‘Where’s Bitey?’ he asked, thinking the old man might take his mind off things.
‘Poor ole Bitey,’ said the landlord, nodding over to a huddled shape at the back of the alehouse.
‘He fell asleep on that table last night,’ continued Merrie, ‘A little after you left. When he awoke he found they had impounded his pig because of the plague. He feels the loss most heartily.’
Bitey’s pig had become a regular fixture in the Bucket of Blood. He had kept it inside his cloak from a piglet, feeding it sips of beer. As a larger animal it had been allowed to lie under the table, where it snuffled happily as its owner scratched its back with a stick.
‘Bitey woke a few hours ago asking for beer,’ added Merrie.
Charlie picked up one of the battered wooden cups scattered around the bar. ‘Chalk this one up to me,’ he said, drawing another cup of strong ale.
He approached the morose Bitey with caution. The old man was named on account of his homemade wooden teeth. Bitey’s oak dentures were hinged with a rusty wire and hopelessly ineffective. When he smiled it was the grin of a man who had swallowed a length of timber.
Today his mouth was closed and downturned. Charlie tended a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, proffering the beer.
The old man’s raddled hand closed gratefully on the handle, and he took a long draft.
‘Only a few more weeks it would have been,’ said Bitey, looking up at him through red eyes. ‘I would ’a made a penny per leg and had a brawn soup for weeks from the head. There would have been three buckets of blood for black pudding besides . . . .’ He sniffed loudly and pushed the wooden teeth further back into his mouth.
Bitey was a squat square of a man whose louse-ridden outer layers hinted at a dense core impenetrable to cold, discomfort, or possibly even sharp weaponry. His tattered coat had been waxed into stiff tendrils and he sported an ancient Cavalier hat, the smallest slice of face sandwiched between chaotic beard and filthy headgear.
‘I’d already closed with a butcher at Smithfield,’ Bitey added. ‘He was to do the job for a side of ribs. An’ then there was the chops and trotters . . . .’ His voice drifted off in anguish.
‘How did it happen?’ asked Charlie.
‘I only let him out to truffle around the muck on Covent Garden.’ Bitey’s face implored Charlie to take his part. ‘I was not but a few streets away. When I came they told me the dog-catcher had been. Taking up all the strays from the streets on account of the plague. Says the piggy was a health problem, so they took him off and had him a’killed. But I tell you Charlie,’ Bitey’s expression darkened. ‘He was a cleaner animal than many men that is in here.’
The old man took a long swig of beer. ‘Things will turn against the King if this kind of business continues,’ he said. ‘Plague or no, you cannot take a man’s pig and expect him to stay a lover of royalty.’
Charlie’s eye slid over to where Merrie was pouring drinks. The landlord had been known to forcibly eject drinkers, for speaking ill of the monarchy.
‘Our Merry Monarch has made a Palace full of whores,’ added Bitey. ‘And now plague has fallen on us, like a terrible judgement.’
‘Royalty is no easy business,’ suggested Charlie, noticing Merrie was headed in their direction.
‘What is difficult to understand?’ challenged Bitey. ‘We had a bad King, and we cut off his head. Then we had Cromwell’s Republic for a time. But we did not like the strict religion of it. So now we bring back the bad King’s son from exile. But many think it unwise.’
‘Not that I be one ’a them,’ Bitey added quickly, noticing that the landlord was now upon them, his face thunderous.
‘You forget the Civil War in between times,’ said Merrie, who’d caught the last of the conversation. ‘All the death and horror of it.’
‘No one has forgotten,’ said Bitey darkly. ‘Least of all those who lost. And to what purpose His Majesty’s fine parades and clothes? Now the streets are blocked from Covent Garden to the Tower.’ Bitey shrugged expansively. ‘And who is to repair the streets after the wagons have made ruts of the mud and broken the cobbles? The parishes can no longer afford it. All the money they have is gone on taking away plague bodies and wood for bonfires to clear the foul air.’
Charlie felt the familiar pang in his stomach twist tighter. Only a few weeks ago the dead bell counted out the departed twice a day. Now it rang so frequently they no longer noticed it.
When the plague had first been reported in May it had seemed far away. Imperceptibly it had crept closer, until June saw nameless corpses become locals and July made the locals into acquaintances. How soon before it was friends and relatives being rung out in the unending toll?
Bitey continued his tirade. ‘The plague is now so high that there is no escaping it. The astrologers. They all say the same. This is God wrath. God’s wrath on account of the King and his ways. And the sinful ways of Londoners. There was a blazing star this year and they all agree this is a very bad sign.’
‘I mean to go to Wapping, first chance I get,’ he continued, barely pausing for breath. ‘Reckon I can hole up there right enough. You should look to get out of the city yourself.’
Charlie nodded, his mind elsewhere. He was used to such portents of doom from Bitey and his hand slipped towards the key at his neck again, warding away the illness.
‘Still got your lucky charm, Charlie?’ said Bitey, changing tack in a bid to keep his listener engaged. ‘I bought me a similar thing myself,’ and he drew out a balding rabbit foot with his old fingers. ‘Lost a claw, but it still works right enough, so
the gypsies tell me.’
‘Did you not hear the story of how Charlie still has his key?’ asked Merrie. ‘Last month the gaming house on Peace Street burned down, and young Charlie here ran back into the flames to get that memento. We thought he had seen some person or money inside. For you know how he plays hero. How we laughed when he came out with nothing but a keepsake from his long-lost mother. A key that fits no lock.’
‘Do you still think your key will find her, Charlie?’ asked Bitey.
Charlie closed the key into his fingers defensively.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘It is sentiment, that is all. This key is all I had, when the nuns found me and my brother. I should not like to lose it.’
‘Hi!’ Merrie had spotted a hazelnut boy helping himself from the beer barrel. He sprinted across the bar, leaving Bitey and Charlie alone together.
The old man’s eyes were settled on Charlie’s closed fingers.
‘Strange shape at the head of it,’ he muttered. ‘A crown over knots. I still think it must be something from before the Civil War. From the time of the old King.’ Bitey’s eyes misted.
‘Who would have thought it Charlie?’ he added. ‘You the finest thief taker London has ever known. Yet you carry the only mystery you cannot solve.’
Charlie took a long sip of beer in answer. And Bitey, exhibiting rare tact, didn’t pursue the topic.
A loud whistle piped up behind then and Charlie turned to see a rare sight in the Bucket of Blood. An attractive woman. As a den of bare-knuckle fighting the ale-house tended to repel rather than invite females who weren’t on the make. ‘Rough old boot’ was one of the kinder descriptions.
He watched the girl approach the bartender. She was a good height. Tall enough to suggest she’d been well-fed growing up. Charlie was not a short man by any means, but he frequently maintained that were it not for a childhood of thin soup he would be tall as King Charles himself.
He let his eyes slide the length of her figure. From her posture he judged her to be no more than twenty-five. She wore a simple, yet well-made dress in green. Not rich but not poor either. Perhaps something approaching the Yeoman classes. And she’d made her own creative additions, banding white sleeves with black ribbon in a loose imitation of the aristocratic fashions.
His gaze moved downwards. The shoes matched the green of her dress and were embroidered with white flowers, turning to a delicate point with a little heel. It was footwear of cloth rather than silk, but even as a replica they were a costly item.
And despite a few mud-spots they were by far the cleanest shoes on the Bucket of Blood’s dusty floorboards.
‘Not employed in any of the hard trades either,’ he said to no one in particular. In contrast to the laundresses and orange-sellers who frequented the Bucket there was a youthful symmetry to this girl’s limbs. He could see where the creamy skin of her neck and back joined with the blonde hair.
This, he judged, was one of the most attractive things about her. She wore it falling free and curled in the courtly fashion, partly gathered in a knot at the crown of the head. It was a stylish choice considering most common women clung to their Puritan linen caps. Even more daringly the flowing locks had been rinsed in a berry wash to heighten the yellow colour.
‘Charlie?’ He turned to see the landlord had arrived at his side and had lowered his mouth to his ear.
‘Do you know that girl Charlie?’ The landlord inclined his head towards the tantalising newcomer.
Charlie shook his head slowly. ‘Never seen her before. Why?’
‘Because she is asking for you.’
Chapter Three
‘Is she Dutch?’ asked Charlie. This was the most likely explanation. Another unsolved mystery of Charlie’s orphan past, was that he and his brother both spoke Dutch, though neither knew how or where they’d learned the language.
People occasionally sought Charlie out to translate, or bargain a case with a sail boat.
But the landlord shook his head.
‘She is English, Charlie, and a right nice accent she has too. I’d say her family has some money.’
Charlie took a seat a safe distance from Bitey and watched transfixed as the girl made her way over. Now that she was facing him he could see she had fine-set features – handsome in their neatness, with a straight Roman nose and large blue eyes. Something about the arrangement suggested instant respectability. As if she were of a class which belied her simple clothes.
‘Are you the Thief Taker?’ The words were out before she’d got to the table. Charlie was glad his customer was studying the Health Certificate in another part of the tavern. He had a hunch a girl of this sort wouldn’t look favourably on his current side operation.
‘That I am,’ he said, leaning back in his chair so that the front legs left the ground. Charlie had become well-known as a private thief taker, and his reputation meant victims often sought him out in the Bucket.
‘What can I do for you my lovely? Have you a purse or a pocket taken?’
The girl narrowed her eyes. ‘I want it known that it is not usual for me to come to a person of your kind.’ She said. It was not clear what she meant by ‘your kind’ but Charlie rolled a little more upright.
‘You could always call on the services of The Watch,’ he said. ‘If respectability is so important to you.’ As a thief taker Charlie operated somewhat outside the law, solving theft cases for a fee.
‘You know as well as I that The Watch cannot be expected to stop serious crimes,’ said the girl. ‘Not a man of them is under fifty years of age, and for a shilling a week they will not risk their old limbs beyond lighting the streets at night.’
‘And so,’ she concluded with an angry sigh. ‘I have come seeking your services.’ Suddenly all the annoyance seemed to rush out of her, and her face sagged for a moment in an exhausted, broken look.
‘What is it I can do for you?’ Charlie was intrigued now. Clearly she had lost something of great personal value. Perhaps some expensive keepsake from a sweetheart or husband.
‘My sister,’ she began, but her face reddened and her eyes filled before she could finish the sentence. She coughed, driving the emotions down by dint of willpower.
‘My sister has been killed,’ she concluded.
The front legs of Charlie’s chair came back to the wooden floor with a thump, and his hand smacked onto the table to steady himself.
‘You have me wrong, indeed,’ he said. ‘I track thieves and cut-purses mistress. For this crime you must see the magistrate.’
She shook her head violently.
‘He does nothing. The magistrate attends only to removing himself and his family from the danger of the plague. Everyone fears for their own lives and looks to their own skin. There is . . . there is no law at all.’
She sat down heavily in the nearest unoccupied chair, looking straight past him. Then to Charlie’s great alarm she began to sob in unselfconscious wracking gasps.
He looked about for a way to end the spectacle and for want of a better plan stood to urge her outside.
Moving beside her, Charlie put an uncertain arm around the girl’s waist and nudged her gently away from the table. To his great relief she stood and allowed him to lead her out.
‘Come on,’ he muttered as they passed the motley assortment of staring drinkers. ‘This place is not proper for your sort in any case. I will take you somewhere better.’
They stepped out onto the street. A large carriage rolled past, the gold leaf on its doors glinting in the sunlight. Charlie was momentarily distracted from the girl, who was now calming herself and rubbing away the tears.
He let his eyes follow the huge wheels, imagining, as he always did, what it would be like to sit inside on the plush seats, screened from view.
His hand drifted to his key. And he wondered, as he often did, what past he had come from, before the orphanage. Charlie and his brother had the scantest of memories before they were orphaned. Snatches involved a grand house, and a fin
ely dressed lady, who hid herself away in a private room.
The girl was watching him now, and he looked away from the coach. His gaze settled on the tailor next door to the pub. He was hammering heavy planks over his shop windows.
‘Sure the plague is not in this part of town?’ asked Charlie.
‘Not yet so far as I know,’ said the tailor, wiping a line of sweat from his brow. ‘But with this weather and the godlessness of Londoners, it will be. There will be an Armageddon of pestilence come August. I had it from a trusted astrologer and I will not wait to be among the dead.’
He put down the hammer to admire his handiwork. ‘Yesterday I went to a plague district to collect a debt and decided in that moment I would stop no more in the City,’ he added. ‘Never in my life have I seen such horrors. All diseased and the very streets rot on their foundations.’
A cart stood ready and loaded with what appeared to be his life’s possessions, and he turned away to secure them.
Charlie felt himself shudder despite the cloying heat of the day. If the shopkeepers were vacating it meant only one thing. The plague was spreading.
He crossed himself and turned back to the girl, who had now collected herself and was standing with a faraway look in her eyes.
In a sudden urge to impress her, he decided to get them both a hot roll.
‘Wait here,’ he said, ‘I will be back in a moment.’
He took a quick sweep of the shops and headed towards a stall where he knew he could bargain for credit.
‘Charlie Tuesday,’ said the baker girl, eyeing him with a mix of flirtation and trepidation. ‘Do not think you can spend your forged coins here.’
‘I have something better,’ said Charlie, dropping his voice. ‘Hold out your hand.’
She looked uncertain for a moment and then squeezed her eyes tight shut.
Charlie brushed his fingers over hers. ‘You can open them again now.’
She opened her eyes in confusion.
‘Look at your hand.’
