The Thief Taker

by C. S. Quinn

  Charlie took a moment to stare open-mouthed at the transformation. Then he caught a glimpse of what he was looking for.

  A familiar sedan-chair in the traffic. And with a brief glance over his shoulder he plunged towards it.

  Chapter Eleven

  The vast Royal bedchamber was traditionally in name only – designed to allow His Majesty to hold court in comfort whilst he slept elsewhere.

  No previous monarch had included the actual furnishings of sleep, but the restored monarch’s habits had gauged it necessary.

  The bed itself was an imposing swathe of royal-blue silk headed by a towering edifice of carved oak which swept high up to the swooping ceiling and jutted over the bed in a shower of gold-threaded tassels.

  The room was festooned in pillows and sofas of the same fabric, alongside acres of sumptuous rugs, a library’s worth of gold leaf and a small forest of oak, all of it set to glint and glisten as the sunlight streamed from gigantic windows of real glass.

  Against the morning light, King Charles II, ruler of England, Scotland and Ireland, stared at the floor. If he kept his eyes down his hangover was easier to bear.

  From the other side of the room came the sawing sound of Amesbury snoring. The war general was some ten years older than the thirty year old King, but they’d forged a camaraderie in strong drink.

  Charles made a cautious peek into the pounding dark depths of his head. Last night they’d transformed this official room into a haven of drink and song.

  He hadn’t counted on having to make policies from it this morning.

  Somewhere in the middle distance he heard a door slam and wondered what the servants were making of their new ruler. Likely they were attending to the Queen, who was an early riser, having been raised in a convent in Portugal.

  He heard footsteps, and two pairs of shoes stepped into his eye line. The first were sensible, black, cut in simple shapes from thick leather.

  The second were blue, embroidered with gold thread and tied with fat loops of silk ribbon.

  Charles allowed the information to compute. The beribboned pair belonged to the Mayor of London. Which meant the plain pair belonged to his overworked aide, Mr Blackstone.

  Steeling himself Charles raised his eyes to his guests, wincing at the lightning bolt of pain the gesture brought.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ He gave them a weak smile.

  The two men bowed.

  Blackstone was undoubtedly the fatter, but he held his bulk in a masculine assuredness beneath his smart black attire. Mayor Lawrence’s chubbiness was of a womanly sort, folding in a double chin and making tentative little breasts under the elaborate gold stitching and buttons of his suit.

  ‘What can I help you with?’ asked Charles.

  ‘We fear, Your Majesty, that a feeling of witchcraft has risen up again,’ said Mr Blackstone choosing his words carefully.

  Charles rubbed his head, allowing his gaze to drift around the room. To his relief it looked as though only Amesbury had slept here last night.

  ‘Wine.’ Charles held out his hand.

  There was the sonorous sound of an eased cork. A gurgle of liquid. And then a chalice was slid into his ringed fingers.

  Charles took a grateful sip. The sound of Amesbury snoring still echoed through the room.

  ‘What do you mean, again?’ asked Charles, raising his dark eyebrows to better take in his guests.

  ‘We had great problems with witches during your exile,’ said Mayor Lawrence, who could always be relied upon to undo Blackstone’s careful tact. ‘It was a time of darkness for the country. Cromwell had taken power from your father the King. He told the people they must keep the strict Puritan religion. But many would not. And some evil people returned to . . . the old ways.’

  ‘What old ways?’

  ‘Devil worship and witchery,’ said Lawrence. ‘There were murders and sacrifices, and dissenters rose up. Cromwell put them under by brutal force. He hung twenty men as witches only weeks before his death. And since your return we have had nothing of that nature to trouble us.’

  In his long black curls Charles noticed something sticky, by his ear. They had called for some sweet liquor, he remembered, just before dawn.

  The King caught the eye of the nearest servant.

  ‘Give these gentlemen wine. We have a very good Burgundy. Or a Bordeaux if they prefer.’ He paused for a moment, making a mental examination of his stomach.

  ‘What does the kitchen have?’ he decided.

  ‘We have a pheasant done in Claret, with bacon lardons,’ said the servant. ‘That is very good. There is a rabbit made with chicory which the Queen ordered. The cook roasts beef on the spit, soft inside, as you like, with French herbs, and there is roast chicken or a fresh turbot with lemon if you would take something lighter.’

  Charles nodded.

  ‘Is there any of the soup from last night? The bean potage?’

  ‘I believe there is Sire.’

  ‘I will take a little of that,’ said Charles. ‘And a few slices of beef I think I could manage,’ he added. ‘Would you gentlemen care for food?’

  Blackstone and the Mayor shook their heads.

  ‘So, you fear that witches have returned?’ asked Charles, forcing his mind to the task. Somewhere beneath the hangover he felt a spark of anxiety. He drained his cup. On cue, a servant stepped forward to refresh his wine.

  ‘There was a murder, in the city,’ said Lawrence. ‘It looked to be a sacrifice of sorts.’

  King Charles took a deep mouthful of Bordeaux and swallowed.

  The sound of loud snoring sawed through his thoughts.

  ‘God’s fish can someone wake Amesbury?’ he said, raising a sudden hand to his pain-wracked head. ‘We can none of us think with that din.’

  A servant gave the slumbering Amesbury a rather disrespectful kick, and the military-cloaked body rolled over and ceased to snore.

  ‘What kind of sacrifice?’ asked Charles.

  ‘A witch’s sacrifice Sire,’ said Lawrence. ‘The body was covered all over in hawthorn, and words were written on the body and a symbol. Like a spell had been cast,’ he added.

  Charles pondered this.

  ‘What did the writing say?’

  ‘It said ‘He Returns’, said Lawrence.

  The three men were silent for a moment.

  ‘What do you think it means?’ asked the King finally. He was looking at Blackstone, having judged him the more intelligent of the two.

  The Mayor opened his mouth, but the King raised a finger and gestured to Blackstone.

  ‘We . . . we do not know what it means,’ said Blackstone, taking a slight step forward. Of course we fear it may relate to your return to the throne.’ Blackstone paused for a moment.

  ‘And what should be done about it?’

  ‘We think it wise that the killer is swiftly caught and put to death harshly,’ said Blackstone. ‘The people . . . they are easily swayed. It would be unwise to let this murder go unpunished. More witches may rise.’

  Mayor Lawrence made to speak again, but as he did the huge door banged, and his mouth dropped open. The King’s mistress Louise Keroulle was walking across the room. Besides the flowers in her curling chestnut hair she was completely naked.

  Mr Blackstone blushed scarlet. His eyes dropped and began frantically following the swirl pattern of the nearest Persian rug.

  With barely a glance at the two officials Louise deposited herself into Charles’s lap.

  Blackstone snuck a sideways look at the Mayor. The ordinarily pompous face was mesmerised, his mouth slightly ajar.

  ‘And you know the murderer?’ Charles was saying, moving his head to be clear of Louise’s naked torso. ‘The witch who made the crime?’

  Blackstone looked up a fraction to see the King’s hands were roaming Louise’s bare skin. He quickly blinked down again, waiting for the Mayor to answer the question.

  There was an awkward silence. Mr Blackstone cleared his throat.

 
The Mayor, he knew, would be annoyed with his outspokenness. But needs must. Lawrence was beyond articulation.

  ‘We think we know the man,’ said Blackstone. ‘The crime may have been committed by a commoner. A thief taker by trade. They perform services which The Watch are too old for,’ he added by way of an explanation.

  The King gave a heavy kind of shrug which almost dislodged Louise from his lap. She overbalanced, righted herself gracelessly with a hand between his legs and then began animatedly fondling his groin as though that had been her intention all along.

  Charles hardly noticed. Then as an afterthought he moved a hand towards her nipple.

  ‘Well then,’ he said finally, ‘do what you must to find him.’

  ‘We need men to bring him in,’ said Lawrence, jogged suddenly out of his trance by the affront of being ignored.

  ‘My guard then, speak to Mr Chaffinch in the Palace. He will give you as many men as you need. Tell all the gatekeepers, and spread this thief taker’s description to every plague checkpoint. To move around the city he must have a certificate bearing his name. Bring this man in. If he is guilty we will hang him as a witch. Set an example.’

  Mayor Lawrence gave a grateful bow.

  ‘Surely you are not expected to attend to every petty crime in the City,’ demanded Louise, in her heavy French accent. ‘That is for the Royal Guard.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Charles, with the faintest of smiles, ‘but my guard is not allowed in the City. The people fear I will turn dictator as my father did, and they do not have the stomach to behead another King. Not since the brutalities of the Civil War.’

  He gave another little shrug, but this time Louise was ready for him, anchoring her hands in fistfuls of his linen shirt.

  ‘Where is my brother?’ demanded Louise. ‘He should be here to advise.’

  Blackstone and the Mayor exchanged glances.

  Louise had brought her whey-faced brother along with her to court. And rumour had it that she wanted George Keroulle to be given some royal appointment. As a younger man George had fought for King Charles I. Now he had been reduced to currying court favour through his younger sister and was suspected to be a spy.

  ‘You can be sure this thief taker is the right man?’ asked the King, ignoring her.

  ‘We have strong reason,’ said the Mayor. ‘He carries this symbol.’ With a flourish Mayor Lawrence pulled out a slip of paper and held it up.

  A crown and knots danced before the King’s drooping eyelids.

  He stared at it for a moment and then looked questioningly at Lawrence.

  ‘This same shape was found burned into the body,’ concluded the Mayor.

  The King frowned, then raised an eyebrow.

  ‘This is the sole reason you think this man a murderer?’

  Blackstone stepped a little forward and coughed politely.

  ‘It is something of a political matter,’ he admitted. ‘We must be seen to act on witches. That the thief taker carries the murder symbol is enough to convince the public.’

  ‘Arresting this man will show the mob that we strike hard and fast against devil-raising,’ added Mayor Lawrence. ‘It is important, Sire, in protecting your glorious reign from those godless factions who might oppose you.’

  He did not add what they all knew. That dissenting groups, of all creeds and religions, were all over London. The slightest upheaval could galvanise them to rise against the new King.

  Charles considered for a long moment.

  ‘Then do what you must,’ he said finally. ‘Now. Is there any other matter I can help you with?’

  Louise gave a little gasp of annoyance, and the King laughed.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he added. ‘I was not raised as a King. Louise reminds me I should not demean myself with courtesies.’

  Mayor Lawrence gave a little nod.

  ‘The plague is outrunning us. We have not enough pits now to hold the bodies. Corpses pile up and rot in the streets.’

  Louise wrinkled her nose. ‘Do you see now why we must leave the city?’ she hissed.

  ‘There are common lands in Shoreditch and Moor Fields,’ continued Lawrence. ‘Peasants raise the odd pig or cow on them, or grow nut trees. By law they are protected. We would like permission to dig them up.’

  The King nodded. ‘Granted.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I will send Amesbury to help you see it done,’ he added.

  Blackstone raised his eyebrows. Amesbury was generally held to be a spectacularly effective general, but completely without morality. He chose whichever side paid the most, and whichever army he led won. Since Charles’s return Amesbury’s war talents meant he was kept as a close advisor. But like many Londoners, Blackstone doubted his integrity.

  Louise leaned in and whispered something in the King’s ear.

  King Charles sighed and gave a sweep of his palm, signalling Blackstone and the Mayor should leave. Then he turned to his French mistress with a half-smile.

  ‘Please be sure to take a dish of the pheasant on your way past the kitchens,’ he called after the retreating officials. ‘Louise has brought her own chef from Versailles and he prepares it in the French way. It is excellent.’

  Blackstone and the Mayor walked carefully out of the Palace, both deep in thought.

  ‘Did you see the harlot’s nipples?’ asked the Mayor, as they cleared the Palace gates and rejoined London’s muddy chaos. ‘She had put rouge on them. They were not a natural colour at all.’

  But Blackstone had other things on his mind. As Mayor Lawrence’s aide he had learned to keep silent. But in his silences he had become a great observer. And he had seen what Lawrence had missed.

  The symbol of the crown and the looping knots.

  He had seen something in His Majesty’s face, when they’d shown him the symbol. King Charles had known what it meant.

  Chapter Twelve

  From inside the velvet-lined walls of the sedan-chair Charlie breathed a sigh of relief and leaned forwards towards the viewing hole.

  The guards were just now coming through Alders Gate and could not see him concealed inside the sedan-chair. But it wouldn’t be long before they started asking questions and someone pointed out where he was hiding.

  ‘Can you take us to the bear pits Marcus? And make sure we are not followed?’

  The carrier’s amber eyes widened.

  ‘The bear pits?’

  ‘I cannot risk we are overheard.’

  ‘You must pay me back if I am shaken down by bandits.’

  The chair lifted and set off at speed. And they made a series of dizzyingly expert turns and feints along the maze of backstreets.

  The chair pulled up at a bear-baiting pit and Charlie ducked gratefully out and into the jostling pack of men shouting their bets.

  Moments later the chair carrier slid in next to him.

  His working clothes could not disguise that he lacked the scabbed legs and wasted arms of other sedan hustlers.

  Marc-Anthony, known to his friends as Marcus, ran an ingenious trade smuggling goods through London in sedan-chairs, which unlike larger wagons were never searched. His shining brown curls, glowing skin and sturdy limbs attested to his earning many hundred times more than most chair carriers.

  ‘Trouble Charlie?’

  Charlie nodded, keeping his eyes on the ragged-looking bear chained to a wooden post. The keepers were bringing the dogs into the scruffy dirt arena and they began to snarl at the chained bear. A couple of shouts went up from the excited crowd.

  ‘Did the guards find you with the forgeries?’

  Charlie had forgotten he had been selling Marc-Anthony’s forged Health Certificates less than an hour ago.

  Ordinarily the smuggler brought in tobacco, wine, lace and silk to avoid paying duty at Tower Bridge. But ever the entrepreneur he had deftly shifted his business to black-market Health Certificates as demand soared.

  Charlie shook his head. ‘It is nothing to do with the certificates. I am wanted Marcus, for some murder I
know nothing of.’

  Marc-Anthony’s amber eyes widened. ‘You are wanted for murder?’

  Charlie nodded quickly, outlining the morning’s events.

  Marc-Anthony gave an obliging whistle.

  ‘You of all people,’ he said after a moment. ‘You do not even believe in witchcraft.’

  ‘The Newgate guards know my face,’ continued Charlie, acknowledging Marc-Anthony’s observation with a wry smile. ‘And the girl has money. She’s probably paid every grubbing vigilante in the City to chase me down.’

  ‘Any bets! Any bets! Any bets!’

  The pit-keeper held out his hand for their penny bet to stay and watch the action.

  Charlie raised his hand and gave over two pennies. ‘For the bear,’ he said.

  Marc-Anthony raised an eyebrow. ‘I do not want to draw attention to myself by winning,’ explained Charlie.

  The bookie palmed the money with practised ease and raised a hand, signifying to the keepers that the dogs could be released.

  ‘So what will you do now?’ asked Marc-Anthony, raising his voice against the shouts of the crowd. ‘You cannot go any further east. The plague is bad here, but deeper in is horror. The streets are deserted, and the only sounds are the shrieks and the moans of the dying. I mean to sail up the river as soon as I get a chance,’ he added. ‘I mean to wait out the plague on my tall-ship anchored on the Thames.’

  Marc-Anthony seemed so urban in nature that Charlie frequently forgot he had a cottage in the little hamlet of Greenwich. He commuted once a week into the City by rowboat through the marshlands at Deptford Creek.

  Charlie shook his head. ‘I have to clear my name Marcus. I have no wish to be jumping at my shadow for the rest of my days, fearing being gutted at Tyburn.’

  A low growling started up. Four dogs had been released from their chains and were circling the bear, teeth bared.

  ‘Is it possible, to prove your innocence?’

  Charlie nodded. ‘Yes. If I find the murderer. To do that I must find out the blacksmith. A brand marked the corpse. Only a skilled blacksmith might have made it. When I find that man I think I might readily find facts which will lead me to the killer.’