The Thief Taker

by C. S. Quinn

  He thought for a moment, trying to imagine how he might approach the situation if it were a simple theft.

  ‘Did your sister have any possessions of value?’ he asked, weighing up the circumstances. ‘Something it might be worth murdering her for?’

  Maria shook her head slowly.

  ‘Most of what we had was sold, when we moved to London,’ she said. ‘Eva had some trinkets. Earrings from my mother. But they were not taken.’

  ‘No clothes removed? No money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was anything else removed from the house?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Did your sister have any enemies?’ he asked, after a moment. ‘Can you think of someone who would want to harm her?’

  Maria shook her head. But Charlie thought he caught a flash of something in her expression.

  ‘Jealous lovers?’ he pressed, ‘rejected suitors?’

  In his experience, this tended to make up the mainstay of London violent crime towards women.

  A flush appeared on Maria’s neck.

  ‘She was popular with men,’ she admitted, after a moment. ‘But none of those who liked her would want to hurt her.’

  Her face had closed down, and Charlie decided to change the line of questioning.

  ‘Did you notice anything about the man?’ he said, ‘When he entered the house?’

  ‘Besides his being dressed as a plague doctor?’ Her voice had a note of sarcasm.

  ‘A stutter in his voice? A limp? Something to mark him out.’

  ‘No. But likely we were too overawed by the spectacle. Plague doctors are fearsome-looking.’

  ‘Did he do or say anything, before he went upstairs?’

  ‘He asked Eva’s age.’

  Charlie logged this. ‘How old was she?’

  Maria swallowed at the past tense.

  ‘Twenty-two.’ Her voice quavered, and then her face hardened again almost instantly.

  ‘Younger than you?’

  ‘Two years older.’

  Maria seemed older than twenty, thought Charlie. She had a prudent competence about her. The kind you might find in a housekeeper.

  ‘Do you remember anything else?’ asked Charlie.

  She paused for a moment. ‘He put a toad in a jar. He said it would purify the air,’ she added. ‘Do you have the toad still?’

  This was the kind of evidence Charlie could use. It might tell him what part of London the murderer came from.

  But Maria shook her head. ‘We threw it in the Thames.’

  Charlie was silent for a moment, knowing the next move should be to wherever the body lay. His mind drifted to the last time he had stood alone with a girl and he felt his cheeks redden.

  ‘Would it be easier if the murderer had taken some property?’ asked Maria, giving no indication she was thinking the same.

  ‘Yes.’ Charlie’s eyes were drawn to the hatch in the ceiling where he assumed the body lay. ‘It is goods I find. And from them people.’

  ‘So you would ask around and see who had bought up the stolen goods?’ asked Maria.

  ‘In a way. The way I find people out is not by what they sell but how they sell it.’

  Charlie frowned.

  ‘I think I should see the scene now. I mean not to offend you but I had rather not stay longer than I must in this house.’

  ‘Yes.’ Maria collected herself.

  A few little beds were arranged downstairs, presumably for the younger children and perhaps Maria herself.

  The uneasy feeling stirred again in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Where is the rest of your family?’ he asked.

  ‘They have fled London,’ said Maria. ‘Father travelled with the children to an aunt in Clapham. To stay safe from plague.’

  ‘But you did not go with your family to refuge?’

  ‘No. I stayed to attend to . . . To this injustice.’

  For some reason, her choice of words sounded alarm bells in his mind.

  He looked back at Maria. She seemed so respectable. Was there something she wasn’t telling him?

  ‘I have the money,’ she said, sensing his sudden mistrust. ‘Here.’ Maria pulled out a purse and selected a guinea from its jangling contents. ‘For seeing the situation up there,’ she added, placing the coin meaningfully on the small table.

  Charlie looked away from the money and up towards the ceiling. Upstairs would be a further few bedrooms. And the body.

  ‘It is up that ladder,’ said Maria, pointing to the entrance to the second level. They both stood for a moment, looking at the opening.

  Charlie paused. A strong instinct was warning him not to go upstairs. He pushed it down, attributing it to the prospect of viewing gory remains. But every sense in his body was suddenly telling him to run as far and as fast as he could.

  Maria turned to face him, and her blue eyes had become dark with feeling.

  ‘Please,’ she said.

  Her devastation set his resolve. She’d lost a sister. The least he could do was try to help.

  ‘I know not what information I might give you,’ he said slowly. ‘But you have my word I will try my hardest to read the scene.’

  He took a step towards the ladder, forcing his legs to move. Then, bringing his lavender posy closer to his mouth he walked back towards the stair and began to climb. Think of the guinea, he muttered to himself. Behind him he heard Maria’s sigh of relief.

  ‘I will wait down here,’ she said. ‘I cannot bear to see the scene anew.’

  The words buzzed meaninglessly as a fresh flood of unease swept through Charlie. Maria’s good looks had helped blind him to the danger. But now reality was hitting him hard.

  His feet felt leaden as he took his first step onto the ladder, and then the next. He concentrated on the wooden rungs, the whorls and lines of the wood, polished to a dark shine by constant use. One hand followed the next, with the reluctant rest of him following on behind.

  Chapter Seven

  The landlord of the Old Bell on Fleet Street gave his guest another uneasy glance. Plague doctors always made him nervous. But this one was worse than most.

  To begin with he’d not taken the time to remove his unwieldy beaked mask or take off the flat crystal goggles. Instead a portion of a pale neck had been unswaddled for eating while the disc eyes stared out over the table.

  Then there was the sheer size of him. The bulk beneath the canvas covering was so enormous the landlord found himself wondering how the hulking body fitted beneath. It was as though a monster had come to dine.

  The landlord watched in undisguised revulsion as the cloaked man forced down his third plate of gizzards. He didn’t seem to have the usual manners of the physician class. Despite his huge frame, the man attacked the food as though he were starved. He had already devoured the remains of a rabbit stew and a joint of meat which had been expected to last the week, along with two bottles of cheap Canary wine.

  The landlord had wanted to deny him entry but by law he was obliged to serve plague doctors. So he kept as far as possible from the monstrous guest, lest he breathe infected air. Besides, his alehouse was completely empty. He supposed he should be grateful for the custom.

  Working the tavern the landlord had become an expert in gauging background. As more food disappeared down the gullet of his ravenous customer the more convinced he became that the man was not of a medical kind. Perhaps he had stolen or bought the costume to earn money from unsuspecting dupes.

  And there was something . . . unwholesome about the way this man forced down plate after plate of food. As though he were feeding some demon as opposed to a grumbling stomach. The act of eating had greased the small exposed portion of his lower face with whitish sweat. And in his haste to despatch the gizzards he had missed his thick lips, smearing a daub of bloody entrails on the mask.

  The landlord suppressed an involuntary shudder and forced himself to pick up a flagon and approach the visitor.

  ‘Small b
eer?’ he hovered uncertainly.

  His attentions were rewarded with the wave of a bloated glove, strained to bursting point with its load of fat fingers. As he moved closer to the figure he noticed there was something unexpectedly solid about the shape. From the size of him the landlord had imagined rolls of fat, but now he was closer he could see the bull-like neck was muscular. There was a smell too. A strong musky scent emanating from the body which the man had evidently tried to mask with lavender. But instead of disguising the odour the cloying floral acted as a conduit, throwing the hot stench wider from the perspiring body. Turning his head away the landlord leaned in and filled the tankard.

  ‘Do you treat plague nearby?’ he asked.

  The head shook, but the mouth kept chewing.

  ‘These are dreadful times indeed,’ said the landlord conversationally. ‘For nothing that is done in the city can seem to stem the tide.’

  The monster said nothing.

  ‘You must be right hungry,’ tried the landlord with a little high laugh, gesturing to the pile of empty plates. This time the iron mask swung so that the glittering crystal eyes were full on his face.

  ‘Before Cromwell won the Civil War I was a soldier,’ came the voice in a rumbling growl. ‘They held us under siege for three long months and we starved to yellow skeletons. Since the horrors of that time I have a healthy appetite.’

  The landlord swallowed, wishing he hadn’t raised the issue. He had heard enough tales of Civil War atrocities to last a lifetime.

  ‘Shall I take these for now or should I take a name and charge you later?’ He pointed to the empty plates.

  ‘How much?’ The response was grunting, begrudging.

  ‘Six shillings,’ said the landlord. It was the most he’d charged for a single guest’s meal in quite some time.

  ‘I will pay half now. Send for the rest.’

  The doctor withdrew a fat purse but to the landlord’s dismay it was only filled with small coins. This did not bode well for extending credit. Three shillings in groats were counted out in neat rows and the mask turned up expectantly.

  ‘What name?’ asked the landlord, extending his arm to pull the money towards him whilst keeping as far as possible from the plague doctor.

  ‘Thomas Malvern.’

  ‘That is your name?’ The landlord was confused. It sounded like an aristocrat’s surname. Commoners had names like Tanner, or Fisher or Goldsmith after their family trade.

  ‘It is an old family name,’ said the man. ‘But our house and lands were confiscated by Cromwell after the Civil War.’

  The landlord nodded, only half hearing. It was a familiar enough story. Those who had fought on the side of the old King were mostly aristocrats. When Cromwell won he had first beheaded King Charles senior. Then he had rewarded his own followers with the lands and titles of the old aristocratic order who had fought against him.

  The landlord put down a slate for the man to scratch his address and was surprised to see the hand write a local residence. He didn’t know any plague doctors who lived nearby.

  ‘Will you take anything else?’ By now the landlord was willing the guest to depart, although heaven knew he could do with the extra money with the city emptying out by the day.

  In his discomfort the landlord picked up the flagon too quickly, spilling a little beer on the costume.

  ‘Here, I will make amends,’ he said, unthinkingly grabbing for the canvas to prevent the liquid soaking into it further. Thomas grasped for the cloak and as he did so the mask shifted to reveal his face.

  The landlord’s face registered dawning recognition and then horror.

  Their eyes locked, and the landlord felt a surge of fear.

  The doctor clamped the disguise back down again but the landlord had already seen. It was a face he knew well.

  ‘You.’ As the words sprang unwittingly from his mouth he knew he was a dead man. Whatever the reason for travelling in disguise and under a false name, this man should not want his secret known.

  ‘I did not think you were permitted to practice as a physician,’ gabbled the landlord, fear making his speech into nonsense.

  ‘I am not permitted to do anything much at all.’

  The landlord nodded as he retreated to the further side of the inn. He feigned turning one of the barrels whilst he rummaged for the loaded pistol he kept hidden.

  He heard the scrape of a sword being drawn but he didn’t have time to turn. The heavy butt of the handle splintered the side of his skull, felling him in a single blow.

  Thomas leaned over the twitching body to assure himself the life’s light had gone out of his erstwhile host.

  He returned to his seat on the rough bench and unfurled a map of the City. Then taking a stick of charcoal he made a careful cross on the alehouse where he currently sat.

  The charcoal paused for a moment, as Thomas noted with pleasure the other crosses.

  Pleased with his progress he drew the remaining dish of food towards him. And with a shovelling stoicism, he finished his plate of gizzards.

  Chapter Eight

  Charlie’s gaze was fixed on the shrouded shape of the corpse. It lay on a plain cot-bed, atop a straw mattress. Blood had leaked through the rust spattered straw, forming a dark pool on the floorboards below.

  The girl’s body had been wrapped in a winding sheet, gathered in a crown of linen at the head. The winding sheet covered almost all of the face, leaving the eyes, set in their slice of death-pale skin, all that was visible of the dead girl’s features.

  Downstairs a door closed, but he hardly heard it.

  His mind had already ticked into thief taker mode and had been framing possibilities as the blood-stained bedroom had come into view.

  The floorboards were poorly fixed and afforded ample sound and light to travel up from below.

  The murderer must have been able to hear the family below, as he worked. Committing the crime with her family downstairs suggested he was brutally callous, as well as calculating.

  Charlie returned his attention to the girl’s remains.

  The dead face lay bloodless and pale. It seemed to be taking up the whole room.

  Two silver groats weighed down her eyes, giving the face an inhuman quality.

  Charlie guessed some mutilation must have been made to the lower face and was now respectfully concealed.

  He took a step nearer the corpse and a choking stench arrested his nostrils.

  Charlie drew the lavender nosegay tightly against his nose. His insides swirled bright and cold. In his experience deadly illnesses had distinct odours. Was it plague he could smell on the body?

  From what he could see the upper features gave no indication that death had involved a struggle.

  He considered this. Maria’s sister had either known her killer, or believed him a real plague doctor.

  ‘Bring out your dead!’

  The loud ringing from the outside street jolted him out of his thoughts. And a hoarse cry announced the rumbling approach of a dead-cart. Since the pestilence had risen the burial wagons now patrolled London regularly. Plague victims could not be buried in proper graves, and their families were often too poor to pay for a coffin.

  To Charlie’s mind the cart sounded ominously close and a sudden fear flashed through him. What if the dead-cart arrived here and shut him up inside?

  Since April anyone found in a plague house was imprisoned there until they died or survived six weeks.

  Instinctively he stepped out of sight of the window. And then he noticed that the winding sheet which swaddled the limbs tight was woollen.

  This wouldn’t be strange in many parts of the city. King Charles had decreed all burial materials to be made of wool to bolster the country’s sheep trade. But in wealthy Holbourne he would expect householders to pay extra to avoid such a vulgar burial.

  So the family did not have enough money to wrap their beloved daughter in linen. He logged the fact against the fee which Maria had offered.

&nb
sp; Something wasn’t right.

  The same uncomfortable feeling crept through him.

  Softening his tread Charlie stepped from the room and back to the opening. He froze.

  The ladder leading back downstairs had gone.

  He was trapped.

  Maria must have removed his means of escape almost the moment he’d stepped onto the landing.

  Charlie tried to stem his racing thoughts and quickly distilled them to one. He had to get out. Now.

  First he needed to know if Maria was still below. Perhaps she could be reasoned with.

  He moved back into the bedroom. His mind was whirling with reasons why Maria might want to trap him here. Had she gone mad with grief? Was it an innocent relocation of the ladder? Nothing plausible sprang to mind.

  ‘I have seen the body,’ he shouted, keeping his voice casual. The rumble of the dead-cart echoed ever closer over the cobbles. ‘What more would you have me do Maria? For I should not like to take away the winding sheet.’

  There was no reply, and he called again.

  ‘Would you have me know anything else?’ he said. ‘Or shall I come back down?’

  Again he was greeted by silence.

  So Maria had gone. Or was waiting silently downstairs for him. He made a quick assessment. The door had slammed.

  So she must have stolen the ladder and left the house. And that could only mean one thing. She was bringing someone else back with her. Someone who she didn’t think he would have agreed to meet unless he was trapped on an upstairs landing.

  This was bad.

  He made a quick assessment. Two escape routes. The first posed two possible problems – the distance between the upstairs and the landing and the possibility that the front door had been bolted from outside.

  The second was the bedroom window. One problem only. The distance of the fall.

  He stepped around the bed and to the window.

  The house was high, and the road beneath was cobbled rather than dirt track. He judged it was an ankle at least he risked by leaping. He struggled again to make sense of the situation.