The Thief Taker

by C. S. Quinn

  ‘What is the torturer’s blacksmith?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘Hidden.’ The watchman coughed again, a disconcertingly liquid sound. ‘The blacksmiths are a good sort of men,’ he managed. ‘None of them think well of the dreadful things that are done to men in the Clink and the Tower. The blacksmith who makes tools for torture hides his identity from the others.’

  ‘And this plague doctor visits him?’ Charlie gripped the watchman’s hand.

  ‘I do not know for certain,’ said the watchman. ‘But there has been talk. A devil man. Dressed as a plague doctor. He visits with the torturer’s smithy, and they say he carries death with him.’

  ‘Do you know where this torturer’s blacksmith may trade?’

  The watchman shook his head. ‘He was hidden. They say his shop may be in Swan Court.’

  Charlie brought his London map to mind. Swan Court was small, but it was rammed full of smithies. Twenty or thirty at least.

  ‘Thank you,’ Charlie patted the watchman sincerely and rose to leave.

  The watchman grunted. ‘If you are fool enough to go there, then you will not last long. Swan Court was one of the first to get plague. It heaves with infection. If this torturer smithy was ever there, he is long since dead.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Thomas stared out from his plague hood. Through the crystal goggles Thames Street looked even more hellish than he remembered.

  The wide through-road was all but abandoned. Besides the little troop of terrified watchmen keeping guard.

  He approached the nearest two, taking out his Health Certificate.

  They were already moving aside as they recognised the shape of his plague-doctor costume. But a flash of the official certificate meant they fell back all the faster.

  Thomas had the highest possible authority to move around the city.

  He made his way quickly through the familiar alleyways. It was a route he’d taken countless times before. The blacksmith had sold him torture tools for years.

  Thomas made a left, and then he was outside the sealed gate of Swan Court.

  Removing a key from his cloak he opened the door carefully and locked it again behind him.

  The blacksmith opened his front door warily. The look of caution failed to fall from his face when he recognised Thomas’s costume. But he moved aside, gesturing the plague doctor should enter and looked nervously out into the courtyard before closing the door.

  ‘I have come for the last consignment,’ said Thomas. ‘I trust they are ready for me.’

  ‘Do you have the money?’

  Thomas dropped a bag of coins on the table.

  The blacksmith pulled back a thin partition which sealed the back of the room. Inside, three small barrels were filled to the brim with the rifle mechanisms.

  ‘There are four hundred snapchances,’ said the blacksmith. ‘They will fit to the rifle butts you already have.’

  Thomas picked one up. The metal snapchance was a little smaller than his hand and curled like a tadpole. At the end was the lever which joined musket with trigger.

  ‘These are good,’ he nodded in approval, turning the snapchance. Each had been printed with the sign – the crown with the looping three knots.

  ‘You have wondered at my purpose for having these made?’ he asked the blacksmith.

  ‘I have made my trade on not asking questions.’

  ‘I fought in the Civil War for the late dead King,’ said Thomas. ‘And after we lost the war Cromwell took my lands.’

  The blacksmith nodded warily. He’d guessed that Thomas had been one of those cavaliers who had lost to Cromwell’s roundheads. But having the information confirmed made him uneasy.

  ‘Now King Charles II sits on the throne,’ continued Thomas. ‘And you might well think I would receive my dues. My lands back again. Rewards. Instead His Majesty’s coward son spends all the Crown money on his mistresses. And he is too frightened of parliament to reward the loyal subjects who fought for his father.’

  Thomas held up the snapchance to the light.

  ‘So I mean to make my own justice,’ he said. ‘And your work has been very helpful in arming those who would follow me.’

  The blacksmith gave a little nod, keen now for Thomas to leave.

  Too late he saw the sword handle heading for his face. He staggered as the heavy handle connected. His hand shot out, grabbing blindly at a tarpaulin which had been strung into the low eaves to keep out the rain.

  The tarpaulin ripped from the ceiling as the second blow twisted his jaw.

  The blacksmith came to consciousness to see a gigantic metal bird peering over him. His hands and feet had been bound tightly enough to draw blood, and he was lying on the hard dirt of his own floor. His mouth was stuffed with rags.

  The bird’s metal beak pulled back. Underneath it was a familiar face.

  The blacksmith made a strangled sound through the rags.

  ‘Surely you must have wondered why I came in disguise?’ said Thomas. ‘I would not have needed to do so if I were a common man.’

  He moved to the little doctor’s bag he always carried and opened it up. Inside, neatly arranged, was an assortment of bloodied objects. The blacksmith knew with terrible certainty their usage.

  ‘You recognise your own work?’ asked Thomas, gesturing to the tools.

  The spiral of fear twisted deep in the blacksmith’s stomach.

  Thomas leaned closer. ‘When I first came here, to buy these tools, do you know how I knew what to request?’

  The blacksmith shook his head in mute terror.

  ‘I was imprisoned in Wapping,’ said Thomas. ‘You would shudder to see what brutalities went on, with so many men crammed into the cells.’

  He paused for a moment, his eyes selecting a tool from his array.

  ‘I was tortured by Cromwell’s men,’ he continued, easing a thin set of pincers from the bag. ‘That is why I am so adept with these tools.’

  He locked eyes with the blacksmith. ‘You will soon discover how talented I am,’ he added.

  On the floor the blacksmith tried to shake his head.

  ‘I need to be sure you haven’t told another soul about my visits here,’ continued Thomas. He eased open the blood-stained pincers.

  ‘I must be very, very sure,’ he said. ‘And after I am sure I will be kind and let you die.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Charlie sent out a heartfelt jumbled prayer and tightened a fist around the key.

  Entering a rough-cobbled street he risked quickening his pace in haste to get to Swan Court, breathing hard against the stale sweat of his coat.

  Then his foot tripped on something yielding and his face met with a great buzzing swathe of flies. He swatted them back and his eyes dropped down to what he had just stumbled over. Charlie’s stomach lurched. It was a corpse.

  Picked out in shadows against the dark ground he could make out the face smashed against the cobble. The man had flung himself from the window above and lay with skull splintered and arm twisted under him.

  Charlie’s head dropped back to the corpse at his feet. He was holding the key so tightly his nails cut bloody crescents into his palms.

  Enormous purple swellings bulged at the throat. One of the buboils had burst on impact and a thick mucus rolled forth, mixing with the blood from the cracked skull. The noisome fluid was dappled all over with a black army of flies.

  A sudden light went on in a diamond-leaded window in the distance.

  Charlie paused, transfixed for a moment. Someone had lit a candle, and the yellow light shone warmly through the glass panes. Then with a terrible slowness he felt strong fingers close around his foot.

  It took him a long moment to digest what was happening and then it hit him with full force. The corpse he’d stumbled over was not dead and had tightened its fist on his ankle.

  Shouting aloud he made to tug himself free but the grip was solid. A face had lifted up from the floor now and was raised towards him wi
th filmy eyes. With a terrible deliberateness it began to heave itself nearer towards him, leaving a liquid trail as it moved.

  Instinctively Charlie ducked down to grab up a loose cobblestone and hammered it with all his strength into the skeletal arm of the corpse. The bony fingers released and he ran headlong along the road and back into the winding dirt alleyways.

  He stood for a moment, panting, and realised he had lost sense of where he was. Thoughts of finding the blacksmith had dulled in his panic. For a moment all he cared about was escaping this festering core of horrors and getting back into a safer part of the City. If he escaped this alive, he swore to himself, he would never put himself near a plague district again. And he would go straight, he threw in for good measure. No more forged Health Certificates or counterfeit coin trafficking. Honest thief taking would be his only business.

  His mind tumbling with the living corpse he grabbed a fistful of tobacco and jammed it in his mouth. Acrid saliva filled his jaw and his lips shaped themselves in a rigid spasm of nausea. Unable to help himself Charlie bent double and heaved. With shaking fingers he pulled out another tuft of tobacco and pushed it between his dry lips.

  Then he heard it. The steady sound of a blacksmith’s hammer.

  Charlie swallowed hard.

  Someone was still at work here. They might be able to tell him how he could find the torturer’s blacksmith.

  Charlie turned towards the dark beyond where the noise was coming from. Then he twisted through an alleyway, back out onto a small street, listened and made another cautious turn.

  The hammering grew louder. Gaining confidence Charlie made towards it.

  He turned into the alley where the sounds were the loudest and recognised the barrel makers. Swan Court was only a few streets away.

  But a working blacksmith would have useful information.

  The forge must be in a hidden enclave, thought Charlie, seeing no sparks spurt from the street.

  The hammering came louder, and he cast about for the source.

  The realisation came all too suddenly. There was no forge on this street. Only a house which had been locked full of plague sufferers.

  The noise was an ulcerated hand banging a metal plate across the window casement.

  Too late Charlie made the connection. A house with live occupants meant there would be a watchman. And he had walked right into their path.

  Charlie’s focus snapped to the doorway of the house to see a guard staring back at him. Then another stepped into view.

  ‘Hold!’ the first watchman was picking up a vicious-looking cudgel.

  But Charlie was already racing towards Swan Court.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The heavy gates of Swan Court were locked, and Charlie could hear the shouts of the watchmen behind him.

  Willing himself to keep calm, he slipped out the piece of earring he used for lock-picking.

  He slipped the wire earring deftly into the keyhole, eased it up towards where he judged the bolt-hook would be.

  Behind him the watchman’s feet thudded down on the wet mud.

  The catch slipped open.

  Charlie caught a final view of the first watchman’s outraged face as it barrelled down the alley towards him. Then he was through the door, letting the heavy lock click back down.

  Charlie took in the little courtyard as the watchman hammered on the thick door.

  Without a key they would have to get some better implement than the cudgels they carried to open it.

  He calculated he had less than ten minutes until they returned with reinforcements.

  If he was to make this risk worthwhile he needed to identify the torturer’s blacksmith, and quickly.

  Inside the yard were the blacksmith forges for smaller implements, and their forges were crammed into every available space. But no blacksmiths were at work.

  Above each was hung a clustered display of metalwork advertising the skill of the occupant. Everything from fire pokers to metal hinges were strung up to the eaves. Some blacksmiths had a talent for delicate items, with ornate buckles and buttons, thimbles and tinder boxes, whilst others specialised in sturdier keyholes and door handles, fire gratings and gateposts. Behind the dangling displays stood decrepit wooden buildings, each hardly larger than a hut, for the purposes of sleeping. But as far as Charlie could tell the area was deserted of live-in occupants. All the blacksmiths had fled.

  He scanned the assortment of empty workstations wondering how on earth he could narrow them down. There seemed to be nothing to suggest one blacksmith made tools for torturers.

  Cries echoed around the wider area, and Charlie realised the watchman were trying to find other men to help them bring him in.

  Carefully he pushed down his panic at the thought and began making a slow circuit of the forges, taking in the abandoned anvils and ironwork. Whoever supplied London’s prisons had made a good job of staying hidden amongst his colleagues.

  Charlie twisted his mouth in annoyance. There must have been over forty blacksmiths working here. Even with the courtyard deserted it would take him days to search every residence. He forced himself to think calmly, unwilling to accept the situation was hopeless.

  He tried to focus.

  Think Charlie. You see things others do not.

  There must be something here that the blacksmiths who lived in the area had failed to notice. Some clue a fresh perspective could discern.

  Charlie thought carefully. The blacksmith couldn’t be working openly on the torture tools. He would easily be seen by his fellows. All the forges were in full view of one another.

  A gust of wind swirled into the little space. The location had been designed to make the most of river air for sweltering work. There was a low ringing melody as the collection of hanging metal work chimed in the breeze.

  In the waving iron something occurred to him. The suspended metalwork represented the height of each blacksmith’s skill or specialty. But what if a blacksmith didn’t need to advertise? What if his customers were of the kind whose purchases were paid for generously and in secret?

  If that were the case he would have no need to demonstrate the latest heights of his skill by updating his wares. His display might be older than the others.

  Where once had been countless blacksmiths Charlie now suddenly only saw one. The dangling metal on display was several shades darker than the surrounding forges. As though it had been a long time hanging without replacement.

  Charlie walked towards it and noticed cobwebs and patches of rust were woven in.

  His eyes dropped to scan the forge below. It looked ordinary enough. But there was a slight change in colour on the side of it. Barely discernible to the naked eye were scant white markings. He crouched to run his fingers along them.

  It was taper wax.

  The residue had melted and then cooled in tiny rivulets along the side of the anvil. Charlie tapped it as he considered.

  This blacksmith has worked at night. When even the light of the forge is not strong enough to work by. He makes metalwork under cover of darkness.

  Then he saw the red cross on the door.

  In the distance the relentless tolling of funeral bells sounded out like a warning. A padlock had been nailed to the entry. The blacksmith had been shut up.

  Charlie knew now would be the time to leave. He could escape the district, flee the city and hope the murders were forgotten.

  Weighing the key in his hand Charlie cast his eye over the exterior of the house. The chimney wasn’t smoking, so the occupant was either absent, or incapable of caring for himself.

  Before he could change his mind Charlie dropped to his stomach and, covering his mouth, peered through the gap at the bottom.

  Inside all was still.

  Rising to his knees Charlie studied the padlock which had been fixed to the outside of the door with heavy nails.

  He slid in the earring wire, and after a tense moment the padlock fell open. Charlie caught it with his free hand and h
ung it loosely back so that any returning watchmen might not immediately see which residence he had entered.

  The door opened easily and Charlie stopped to check the security of his mouth covering. Then he waited in the doorway, listening for any sound inside.

  His heart stopped for a moment. A crashing noise was coming from the room. As though a huge wild bird were caught inside.

  Then he saw the source. A tarpaulin which had once lined the roof flapped free. In the breeze it slapped loudly against the wall and floor.

  Inching slowly into the house Charlie took stock.

  Inside the windowless wooden walls it was mostly dark.

  He tied off the tarpaulin so as to better hear any occupant.

  Then Charlie paused again, ears straining.

  Silence. The room was empty.

  He stepped further into the dark, floor creaking beneath him. Wooden floorboards, an expensive choice for a poor blacksmith. There was a real bed too, with a frame of netted ropes. He could just make out that papers were strewn about the floor and a barrel of half finished ironwork upended. It looked as though someone had been here before him.

  The residence had been ransacked.

  A sour smell washed over him. A smell of dead things.

  In the gloom he could make out a hanging brace of pigeons under the chimney. It smelled as though the meat had begun to turn in the thick summer heat.

  He knelt at the upended barrel and picked up one of the metal objects from the floor. It was a snapchance – the firing mechanism for a musket.

  Charlie sat back on his heels to consider. The floor was strewn with them. Fifty at least. Far more than any domestic purpose might need.

  So this blacksmith was making weapons.

  Charlie thought about this. Close to the overturned barrel he could make out damp rings on the wood floor where other containers had been sat. He made a quick calculation. Three barrels. Four hundred snapchances. Four hundred muskets.

  The blacksmith had made enough to equip an army.

  He let his thumb travel over the snapchance and it picked out a familiar shape.