The Thief Taker

by C. S. Quinn

  Charlie darted forward and, slipping a quick hand through the door, relocked the padlock.

  ‘He is in there!’ came a shout from the street. ‘His hand just locked the door!’

  There was a heavy sound of metal. Someone at the front door was loosening the padlock.

  ‘Come quick for I should not like to go within alone!’ shouted the guard.

  Charlie turned quickly towards Maria and back to the door.

  ‘They will be armed and will not stop to question.’

  ‘What can we do?’ whispered Maria. ‘They will think us plague thieves and arrest us for certain.’

  ‘If they do not kill us first.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Amesbury lay on the silken covers of the King’s four-poster bed. He had removed his cloak, revealing a soldier’s shirt banded around his wide girth, with an orange sash. But his legs, crossed in front of him, were still clad in long leather boots.

  The servant had brought him a little breakfast. Some fresh bread, butter and a pint of cream were by the bed. And the first girl had also been ushered in.

  Amesbury considered her.

  The girl wore a red silk dress which she was slowly inching off her white shoulders. Two dark nipples peaked into view, then the curve of her stomach, a patch of chestnut hair and two shapely thighs as the dress amassed in a pile at her feet.

  He waved his hand that she might turn a circle for him.

  The girl obliged, keeping her expression seductively angled towards the bed.

  Amesbury nodded. The King liked that kind of thing. She might do very well.

  ‘You understand how this would work?’ he asked the girl. ‘I will pay you a fair salary. And you will ask His Majesty for nothing. No trinkets, no property. Not even if he offers it.’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘You will offer no opinion on politics. And you will report to me on his other mistresses,’ Amesbury added. ‘Tell me what they ask of the King and what he is likely to give.’

  She nodded again, but more slowly this time.

  ‘Very good,’ said Amesbury. ‘Have you had the pox?’

  The girl shook her head vehemently.

  ‘Show me.’

  For a second the girl hesitated.

  ‘Show me between your legs. I would like to see for myself.’

  The girl clambered up onto the bed. Kneeling in front of him, she spread her legs.

  ‘Wider, so I might see.’

  She spread them a little further. Amesbury noted several mercury scars, where she had been treated for syphilis.

  He shook his head sadly. She had looked so promising.

  ‘You are no good to me if you give the King the pox,’ he said. ‘I mean to help him keep his country, not to give the man a life of pain.’

  He signalled the girl should get up.

  ‘You are a handsome girl and will do very well in the City,’ he said, holding out a coin. The girl rewarded him with a wide smile. She folded the money in her palm and climbed off the bed to retrieve her dress from the floor.

  She was exiting just as Louise Keroulle, in a rare state of full dress, exploded into the room.

  ‘What are these girls who wait outside in the corridor?’ she demanded, fury thickening her French accent.

  ‘Come now Louise,’ scolded Amesbury, ‘we are neither of us children.’

  ‘You look to find my replacement!’ she raged. ‘You will not do it. You think I am a spy. But I am not!’

  Louise stamped her foot. Then she ripped the tortoise-shell clips from her curling brown hair and launched them at the bed.

  Amesbury was on his feet.

  ‘Do not think you might have your tantrums with me as you do with the King.’

  At his full height Amesbury still cut an intimidating figure, despite being now over forty.

  ‘How dare you employ whores to turn His Majesty away from me!’ returned Louise. But the fight had gone out of her voice.

  She stood, for a moment, her bosom heaving in and out of her dress. ‘You have no right,’ she hissed, ‘to treat me this way. It was France who sheltered him in exile. My brother fought for his father.’

  ‘What is happening Louisie?’

  Another French accent sounded, and Louise’s brother George entered the room. He was only a few years younger than Amesbury and treated Louise more like a daughter than a sister.

  George, with his pronounced widow’s peak, flamboyantly French gold-embroidered coat and beribboned stockings, came closer.

  ‘He tries to find women, to take the King’s heart away,’ said Louise, pointing a trembling finger at Amesbury.

  ‘And why should I not?’ retorted Amesbury, his temper rising. ‘Do you have any idea, you foolish girl, the trouble you cause?

  ‘Do not dare to speak badly of my sister,’ blustered George. ‘I fought for your King and for your King’s father.’

  ‘As did I,’ said Amesbury. ‘And now women like your sister spend the King’s money on clothes and jewellery. Money which should have gone to repairing the wounds of the Civil War.’

  Louise looked uncertain.

  ‘Some think you are a spy for the French, the harm you have done His Majesty’s rule,’ continued Amesbury, his voice steady with anger. ‘But I think you are just greedy. Greedy and foolish.’

  He pointed at Louise. ‘The King’s money should have been paid to the Catholics who defended his father,’ he said. ‘Those men fought for him. They suffered greatly under Cromwell. Now there is nothing to repay them. And why? So whores like you can have a bejewelled dress and a fine country house for your parties.’

  Louise and George stood open-mouthed now, as the storm of Amesbury’s rage descended.

  ‘You pretty girls,’ he continued, ‘with your clothes and diamond rings. You take, take take. And it is men who go to war for it. Have you any idea what happens on a battlefield? What is necessary?’

  Louise’s face was fearful.

  Amesbury shook his head. ‘The King was not brought up a ruler,’ he said. ‘He comes to it later in life. Who can blame him now he has the money and women like you cling to him like leeches? What man wouldn’t make poor choices, under the circumstances?’

  He nodded towards the white lace and pink silk fitted around Louise’s small waist and flaring to a costly expanse.

  ‘You came to seduce the King, knowing him to be married. And you dare question my morals for finding a girl who will tax our country less than you? A girl who does not try and make him leave London, for her own selfish ends?’

  George stepped protectively towards his sister.

  ‘We should leave London,’ he said, ‘for our own safety. In France when there is plague . . .’

  ‘This is not France!’ interrupted Amesbury. ‘This is England. And the English expect more from their King. If he leaves it will let all those who might form uprising know that their King is weak and absent.’ Amesbury gave a great heaving sigh. ‘Do you have any concept of politics at all? Every day we hear of more uprisings. The moment the King deserts the city they will have their reason to strike.’

  A little brown body bounded into the room, ran up Amesbury’s leg and wrapped its tail around his waist.

  Louise gave a hiss of disgust. She’d always hated Amesbury’s pet monkey.

  The animal had bitten her more than once and seemed to have been trained to pickpocket her. Though Amesbury swore it was not an intentional education.

  ‘The court must leave London,’ she said. ‘These whores outside risk us all. Any of those girls outside could be carrying plague.’

  ‘If the King leaves London,’ said Amesbury, ‘then the city will fall to chaos. Already order is worn thin.’

  ‘Then we all face death!’ replied Louise, her cherub features contorted in rage. ‘You pretend you love the King. You are only bitter because you were one of those who did not get his land back. We must leave. Soon!’

  ‘You must listen to her,’ agreed George, who alw
ays sided with his sister. ‘You risk us all if you do not convince the King to leave London.’

  But Amesbury wasn’t listening. His monkey had tugged something free from Louise’s pocket. A letter inscribed with a symbol.

  Mesmerised, he watched as the animal delivered it to his hand.

  ‘What is this?’ Amesbury demanded, waving the paper at Louise, ‘where did this symbol come from?’

  Louise shrugged. ‘The King was reading it. He asked me to put it safe for him.’

  In a single bound Amesbury had her by the throat, pressed against the wall.

  George sprung towards his sister, but Amesbury’s huge hand shot out and sent him flying. George fell sprawling on the far side of the chamber.

  ‘Where,’ hissed Amesbury, ‘did you get this?’

  Louise’s face had reddened under the pressure at her throat. Her voice came out in thick gasps.

  ‘The King,’ she managed. ‘I swear it! Put me down. Please. I know not anything more than that.’

  Amesbury stared closely at her face, determining whether she was lying.

  After a second he released his hold. Louise fell away, gasping and clutching her throat.

  ‘You have made an enemy of me Amesbury,’ she whispered, backing away. On the far side of the room George had righted himself and moved to join his sister.

  ‘The King will leave London,’ she snarled, ‘I will be sure of it. And believe it, there will come a day when you will be sorry. It will come sooner than you think.’

  Louise backed carefully out of the room, still rubbing her neck, and George followed after.

  Amesbury stood alone with the letter. His fingers traced the symbol at the bottom.

  ‘A crown,’ he muttered, ‘over three knots.’ His hand had begun to twitch. An old habit from the Civil War.

  ‘I thought they were all dead,’ he whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Charlie looked up appraisingly. The roof was of thin thatch. It had been made cheaply from the reeds of London’s nearby marshlands. He reached up and snatched an experimental handful. The thatch had not been well maintained and was mouldering.

  ‘We can pull it down and get out through the roof,’ he said, gripping another handful of reeds and tugging them free. ‘It is not more than a few inches thick and weak in places. If we both work fast we may be able to escape.’

  Maria stood immobile looking at him, and then she leapt into sudden action. ‘Where is the best place?’

  ‘There,’ said Charlie. ‘The thatch is much looser here. You can almost see daylight in places.’

  He led the way punching in his fist and tearing away clumps of thatch as fast as he could. The sharp material sliced into his skin and it took all his strength to break the strongest reeds.

  Outside he heard the chink of wood on metal. The watchman was smashing at the padlock with his cudgel.

  In desperation Charlie returned to the task of destruction with renewed vigour. Sunshine shone through a fist-sized hole. Fitting together the backs of his hands he ploughed up between the reeds and wrenched them into a larger opening.

  He looked down to see Maria seemed to have stopped work on the roof and was staring back towards the door.

  ‘Help me!’ hissed Charlie. ‘Make haste Maria, they will soon be in the house.’

  From the other side of the door a voice shouted through.

  ‘Hear this you thieves! I am bringing now justice, so do not think you may flee, for I and my friend are both watchmen and are armed besides.’

  The smashing sound at the door grew louder. It sounded as though the padlock had begun to give way.

  Another voice echoed along the street.

  ‘Which house?’ It was a second watchman. ‘I have a master key.’

  The second shout galvanised Maria back into action, and they both scrabbled desperately, hands colliding as they pulled at the fibres. The reeds opened out into a hole large enough for a person to squeeze through.

  ‘It looks very dirty,’ said Maria uncertainly, looking at the dusty opening.

  Ignoring her and readying himself for the impact Charlie shut his eyes, bent his knees and pushed his shoulders with all his strength into the gap.

  It held at first and then split and tore, allowing his chest to break through.

  Taking a deep breath of the London bonfire smoke Charlie opened his eyes at the welcome daylight of his city. He drew first an arm and then the rest of his body through the hole.

  Out on the roof the sense of freedom was overwhelming. He looked back to Maria below.

  She called nervously up to him. ‘I do not think I will fit through there.’

  There was a different sound at the door. The second watchman had arrived and was fitting a key to the lock.

  Charlie bit back retorting that she could stay in the house for all he cared. He wouldn’t like to have her imprisonment on his conscience but her freedom was not worth risking his own neck for if she wouldn’t even try for it.

  ‘Put your arms up,’ he said, grasping her long fingers as she obeyed and pulling as hard as he could.

  ‘The key won’t fit,’ he heard the watchman shout. ‘The lock is too badly damaged.’

  ‘Then smash it in. It will only take a few more blows,’ said his companion.

  Charlie turned desperately to Maria.

  ‘You have to push with your feet,’ he said. There was a sudden jolt of pressure as she deigned to assist her own escape. Then something stuck at the hips. Maria’s hooped skirt had stuck in the gap.

  A shuddering blow smashed at the door. The wood splintered.

  ‘Take it off,’ he said in exasperation.

  ‘It cost me three shillings!’

  ‘The thing is no use to you if you are killed by plague watchmen,’ he hissed. ‘I do not have to help you Maria. You may stay here and die in high fashion if you prefer.’

  Another blow split the door nearly in two. Behind it the watchmen could now be seen kicking their way into the house.

  Her face twisted in annoyance, Maria slipped off the hoop underskirt and let it fall to the floor.

  Bracing his legs against the roof he wrapped his arms under hers.

  ‘What is it you wear?’ he complained as the rigid garment pressed into his skin. His experiences with women involved fabric underclothes, but she seemed to be dressed in some kind of armour.

  ‘It is the reed you feel, for strengthening my bodice,’ said Maria. ‘The shape keeps the figure upright and proper,’ she added with considerably more loftiness than the situation entitled her to.

  Below her the two watchmen barrelled into the house.

  Shaking his head in disbelief Charlie made a final heartfelt tug, wrenching her slim shoulders through the opening and onto the roof.

  He pulled her through just in time to see the first man make a snatch at her leg.

  Charlie set off racing along the City thatch. And with a final sad glance in the direction of her abandoned hoop underskirt, Maria followed after.

  Running over thatch was hard work, and every footfall sunk and caught a little in the reed, taking twice as much effort as the ground. Charlie found himself out of breath and sweating by the time he’d run the length of the street by the rooftops.

  To his amazement Maria arrived next to him almost immediately, looking flushed and determined.

  ‘I’m from the country,’ she said, by way of explanation, ‘when piglets and lambs escape you must be fast over rough ground.’

  ‘They will give chase along the street,’ said Charlie. ‘Likely they may stop to take hold of weaponry. We should get down from the roofs.’

  They both slipped down from the roof to the deserted pavement and strode in silence onto the wide streets of Cheapside.

  Charlie realised his hair was stuffed with the broken splinters of thatch and dug his hand through the thick mop, restoring dark blonde to places.

  ‘So this plague doctor kills an innocent girl and looks to equip an army.�
�� He said, finally taking a moment to understand what they had found at the blacksmiths.

  ‘You said we must talk to the gunpowder men. They might know something.’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘My connections are not so high. But to make gunpowder you need saltpetre.’

  There were eleven saltpetre men scattered around the City, and he had no idea how he might get to each with no Health Certificate and half of London in pursuit of him. But it was the best lead they had.

  Maria’s nose wrinkled. ‘We must go to the saltpetre men?’

  ‘You must think yourself very fine indeed,’ said Charlie. He didn’t bother to keep the disgust from his voice. ‘It is only your sister’s murderer we seek Maria.’

  ‘I would do anything to find her killer,’ said Maria, ‘But I cannot help that my sensibilities are finer than yours and I do not relish the smell of saltpetre. Or throw myself in cartloads of dead bodies at any opportunity,’ she added haughtily, tossing her hair.

  Something about the gesture reminded him of Mother Mitchell’s girls. And then it occurred to him. The second dead girl. Antoinette. She was a kept woman. And most women of that sort had some dealings with Mother Mitchell’s network at some point.

  ‘There may be something else,’ he said. ‘Mother Mitchell. She might tell me something.’ He thought of the plague ravaging the city. ‘That is if she hasn’t already left,’ he added.

  ‘Then we must go there now,’ decided Maria.

  ‘We?’ Charlie looked at her. ‘You will not be coming with me. The last thing I need is some fool girl slowing me down and troubling those I need information from. Besides, you made me a promise that you would leave me be.’

  Maria shook her head obstinately. ‘I promised I would not follow you. But that does not stop me telling the Newgate guards where you go.’

  ‘You would not.’ He stared into her face, horrified to see she was serious.

  ‘I would do anything. Anything to bring my sister’s killer to justice. Do not test me Charlie Thief-Taker. I would see you swing with a smile on my face, if it brought me one step closer to justice for Eva.’

  Charlie was lost for words.

  ‘We must go then to this . . . this Mother-Mitchell-courtesan of yours,’ said Maria, stumbling over the words, ‘and see what she might tell us.’