by C. S. Quinn
In the slim beam of sunshine the tunnel’s end revealed itself. And to his amazement only a few steps from where he was standing was a wooden door with a latched handle.
A jumble of prayers caught in this throat as he raised his hand to the large latch, pressed it down and pushed with all his strength. Against the full weight of his body the door inched open, showing the thinnest crack of the outside world.
It must be of some hugely thick construction, thought Charlie, driving in with his legs to push it open further. The door creaked and rolled at agonisingly low speed, revealing as it did so the maddened face of Teresa bowling towards him from the gloom of the tunnel.
Charlie slipped through the narrow opening and let it slam back as Teresa hurled herself against it from the other side.
The door smashed into her wrist, turning the knife in on itself as her body fell forward.
The blade jackknifed back against the door and disappeared into some dark reach of her body.
A scream issued up and then a choking and a gurgling.
Charlie turned his body to hold the door shut, pushing it fast, not willing to risk that she was trying to trick him again.
The outside of the door was lined with a thick covering of turf and set hidden into a near vertical verge. He leaned against it.
Charlie paused to take a quick stock of his discoveries and surroundings.
The tunnel had brought him out by the waterfront. He was standing in a sunken grassed area, and behind him the entrance to the prison was now rendered almost invisible, set into the slanted slope.
Broken walls of the old port loomed above him, casting drawn-out shadows in the late afternoon light. His heart hammered as he assessed the situation.
Maria. He would have to get back in the tunnel somehow. It was his best hope of freeing her from the prison.
Stepping away from the door he stood for a moment. If Teresa was badly injured he could easily return through the tunnel. But it could have just as easily been a feint to lure him back.
His mind scanned the possible options.
Weakness flowed suddenly into his muscles.
Charlie willed himself to take stock of what had happened, driving down the pain from his burned back and legs which had suddenly reared again.
It was not Malvern who killed those girls. It was his wife.
Charlie tried to assess what it meant. If Malvern was not involved in some dark magic then his uprising must be more calculated, more logical than they’d given him credit for.
What was it he brought back to London by the wagonload?
A heavy form blocked out the sun, casting him into cold shade.
Charlie looked up. His curiosity turned to instant fear.
A huge wagon, driven by six black horses, had arrived on the road. From his vantage point in the grassed trench the enormous hooves drew level with his head. Then slowly the vast turning wheels followed after.
Charlie waited frozen for a moment, wondering whether he could be seen. Then a shadow fell long across the grass beside him.
It was in the shape of a curved beak.
The plague doctor had arrived.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Taking a quick stock of his surroundings Charlie ducked low and sprinted towards the cover of a nearby hedgerow. He threw himself behind it panting and peered through the branches to assess whether he’d been seen.
The heavy vehicle stood motionless. It was a contained wagon – an enormous black chest on wheels with a separate driver’s seat at the front. Malvern stepped down from the seat and moved to the back of the wagon. He opened the doors, and Charlie caught a flash of blonde hair inside.
Maria.
He stared out at the scene in horror. Malvern must have taken her from the dungeon. But why? The possible reasons made his stomach lurch.
He couldn’t tell if she were alive or dead, but he could make out her hands and feet had been bound.
Charlie gritted his teeth. She could not be dead. He wouldn’t believe it.
Malvern closed up the door of the wagon with a heavy padlock and then turned towards the hedgerow where Charlie was hiding. There was a long moment as the beaked mask stared out towards him. Charlie stayed motionless, his breath held.
Slowly Malvern began to stalk towards him. As he drew closer the residue of rusting blood on the hem of his canvas cloak came into close relief.
Then he turned towards the place in the grassy verge that held the hidden door leading to the dungeon. Charlie watched as he slipped a short rod of metal from his cloak and inserted it into some secret part of the door.
Using both arms he pulled at the heavy opening, dragging it back to reveal the dark tunnel inside. Charlie saw the slump of the corpse first. Teresa fell forward glassy-eyed, the motion of her dead limbs rigid. A dark circle of blood stained her tattered white shift. Her gore-soaked hand had closed around the knife but she’d failed to pull it free. It was lodged in her stomach right up to the hilt.
Her scream must have been real then, thought Charlie. Teresa had run onto her own blade as the door slammed into her. He looked back to the wagon, fighting the instinct to run out into the open and wrench at the padlock. It was probably basic enough for him to pick. But he would need longer than a few snatched moments.
He stemmed his breathing trying to remind himself he could do Maria no good by dying.
Charlie’s attention went back to Malvern. He had dropped to his knees and was examining the body of his dead wife. It was impossible to tell what he was feeling behind the mask.
Malvern reached forward and tugged out the knife. Then he held it up in the sunshine and looked at the bloody blade for a long moment.
A low growl of anguish went up.
Malvern was howling a strangled lamentation.
After a moment the sound stopped and he heaved up the body and began walking back to the wagon. Malvern was alert now, looking left and right.
Heaving the corpse of his wife into the wagon with more delicacy than he had Maria, the crystal eye goggles gazed unblinking into the dark interior. Charlie caught a glimpse of blonde hair and then the load of corpses, wrapped in their linen winding sheets.
Then Malvern shut up the heavy door of the back and bolted it with a thick lock. Returning to the front he climbed heavily into the driver’s seat and urged the horses forward with a flick of the reins.
The wagon lurched into motion.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Charlie watched the wagon roll slowly away, trying to quell the rising panic that Maria could be dead.
He rose slowly from behind the hedge. The vehicle was not yet moving fast. It would take a good few minutes of open road to reach full speed.
The wagon was like a boxed-in shed on wheels, with a padlocked door at the back and a seat for Malvern at the front.
Charlie was sure that the back entrance of the wagon could not be easily seen by the driver.
And breaking into a jog he followed at a safe distance along the waterfront road. The wagon rolled through the unmanned south of the town and out onto the London Road.
On the wide dirt track Malvern gave another flick of the reins. The horses broke into a canter, bouncing the vehicle high on the rutted and unkempt highway.
Charlie dropped back to avoid being seen and then made his decision.
Under the padlocked back door was a thin lip of wood. If he ran and jumped, there might be just enough wood to get a toe-hold.
Then he could try and pick the lock whilst the wagon was in motion. It wouldn’t be easy. But any chance to save Maria was worth the risk.
Charlie broke into a sprint. But the wagon raced ahead. He realised he had underestimated the pace which six horses could build. The wagon was ricocheting over the road at a rapid speed, spitting a slew of pebbles towards him in its wake.
He threw up an arm to keep the sharp missiles from his face and willed himself to run faster.
The padlocked door grew nearer.
Char
lie slowed for a moment and then charged at the back of the wagon in a run. He leapt, planting one foot on the narrow ledge and gripping the edges of the wagon with his hands.
The support beneath his feet splintered away completely. His leg crashed painfully through the damaged wood. But he managed to scrabble with the other and gain the slightest of toe-holds. His hands gripped white to the side of the carriage.
The wagon began to slow. And he realised Malvern must have felt the impact and was stopping to inspect his vehicle. Charlie looked back to the road. He had no choice but to jump down and hide. But Malvern would see the damage and know he was being followed.
Charlie closed his eyes. He couldn’t. He couldn’t jump away.
‘Maria,’ he hissed, holding his mouth to the door. ‘Are you there?’
No sound came from inside the wagon. The horses had slowed now to a trot.
‘Please Maria. Please say you are alive.’
Nothing.
The wagon gave a sudden lurch. It was picking up speed again. Charlie held his breath until he was sure of it.
Malvern must have decided against delay and had urged the horses back to a faster pace.
Examining the lock Charlie struggled to pull out his pick whilst holding one-handed to the juddering wagon.
With the motion over the ragged road it was impossible. Lock picking required delicacy of movement and here he had none. He swung a hand to the keyhole and swore as the wire of his lock-picking earring sheered away.
Charlie held his arm steady and aimed again at the lock.
The wagon veered crazily to one side and his foot twisted downwards. Beneath him the last part of the ledge cracked ominously. In desperation he lunged towards the lock, and the wire slipped once more into it. The wagon bounced and jolted, but he thought he could feel the internal lever.
A rut in the road threw him a foot in the air, and he gasped, but managed to keep his arm tight to the lock.
There was only one lever to pick. Charlie twisted the wire to spring the lock.
Then the horses reared and gunned forward sending the wheels behind them careening back and forth.
His foot bore down hard on the remaining sliver of ledge. It split under his weight and twisted away beneath him.
Charlie’s grip scrabbled at the wagon sides for a moment. Then he fell, hitting the dirt track face-first.
Charlie felt the breath knocked out of his body and then nothing.
And up ahead the wagon raced on to London without him.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Mayor Lawrence gave a low exploratory cough. Over the past few days he had personally supervised the removal of six thousand corpses from the streets and homes of his city.
Probably he had been working too hard in the smoke of the many bonfires, he decided.
After the death of his serving maid, Lawrence’s whole family had fallen in quick succession. Now he wondered why he had worked so hard for so long on matters of his own self-importance. He would have dropped every last chain of office in the Thames for one more day with his wife.
With no one to go home to, Lawrence had begun involving himself in things which were previously beneath his notice. At first he had merely been horrified that there were not enough staff to clear the mounting bodies. But with little care for his own life it had not taken long to take to the task in person.
The ragged and desperate men who still cleared bodies found the Mayor’s involvement strange. But Lawrence did not care. The terrible work helped stave off the memory of his awful loss.
Sounds of a baby crying had been reported on Brewer Street, and Lawrence was making to investigate. He was dreading what he might find. Taking to the streets in person had been a revelation.
The house was of the fine brick sort, and the door was sturdily bolted from the inside. He tapped at a window and peered inside. A well-appointed reception room attested to the wealth of the owners. From what he could see it had been abandoned.
Then he heard it. The unmistakable sound of a baby crying.
Swallowing hard Lawrence returned to the front door. He knocked hard, and then heaved his bulky weight against it without waiting for an answer. On the second attempt the wood splintered and he shouldered his way in.
The crying was louder now, inconsolable. It was coming from the back of the house and Lawrence moved through the first reception room into a second smaller room.
He stopped suddenly.
Inside, stretched out on a chaise lounge, was a dead woman. She wore a fine silk dress which had been pulled down at the front. And wedged against one of her exposed breasts, in the crook of the cold dead arms, was a screaming baby.
Lawrence froze for a long moment. And then swallowed, heading towards the child.
‘There, there,’ he whispered, his fear temporarily bested by his need to comfort the child.
He approached the corpse, tilting his head to see how he might best extract the infant.
Up close he saw the plague tokens covering the breasts of the dead woman.
They served him a sudden haunting flash of how plague had decimated his own small household.
His maidservant Debs had died within hours of discovering the marks on her body. But his wife had taken four long days to die.
He drove the images back and addressed how best to remove the baby.
Moving carefully Lawrence tugged at the child. The rigor mortis of the mother’s arm around it formed a powerful hold, and for a terrible moment he thought he may have to break the bone.
Then the baby slid unexpectedly free from the dead mother and Lawrence found himself with the warm little body in his arms.
He stared at the tiny features. The child could not be more than a few weeks old.
‘There is no need for that noise now,’ he said, clucking and rocking the child. ‘We will take you and find you some food.’
Lawrence mind searched for possibilities. He could think of no way to acquire milk. But he was sure the answer would come to him.
‘I always wanted a child of my own,’ he told the baby, as he carried it through into the hallway. ‘But my wife and I were separated before we had the chance. I will see you are well cared for,’ he added.
The baby wriggled in his arms. It had stopped wailing and was making sucking noises with its mouth. A request for food, Lawrence deduced. He put his knuckle in the child’s mouth and was rewarded with an enthusiastic suckling. This delighted him.
‘Perhaps first I will find if there are clean clothes in the house for you,’ he muttered to himself, thinking the baby must be soiled beneath the long christening robe it wore.
He turned aside the garment to see beneath.
His hand went rigid.
The tokens were all over the child’s body.
Something in his movement must have alarmed the baby, because it started up crying again. He realised now these were muted sounds, as though it was running low on strength.
Lawrence sat heavily on the dusty wooden floorboards, the child in his arms.
Within an hour the cries had stilled to ragged dying breaths. And after two, the warm body had begun to grow cold.
Standing with difficulty Lawrence carried the tiny body back into the room he had found it in and tucked it carefully back in the dead arms of its mother. Then he covered it back up with its christening robes.
Two fat tears rolled from Lawrence’s face onto the baby’s head and he wiped them off.
‘You will be better with your mother,’ he whispered. ‘The angels will have joy of you both.’
Then he walked back through the hallway, trying to calm the shaking which had started in his legs.
He closed the door, sat on the steps, put his head in his hands, and sobbed.
It must have been a long moment later when a searcher tapped his arm.
‘There has been another letter,’ said the searcher, looking urgently into Lawrence’s face. ‘Mister Blackstone writes of his progress outside the city. He manag
ed to find a messenger to deliver the missive.’
Lawrence looked up and held his hand out for the paper.
The searcher pushed a single page into his hand, and he glanced at it through tear-filled eyes.
Blackstone had made some unexpected headway on the witch-murders.
Lawrence sat up a little.
Whilst keeping track of King Charles, Blackstone had unexpectedly stumbled upon the symbol to a long disbanded group of men who called themselves the Sealed Knot.
Lawrence stopped reading for a moment, wondering whether he had the energy to care about such trivial matters.
Almost all of London’s officials had fled, and the plague had chewed through his thousand strong staff of searchers, five times over.
They had dug enormous pits in Stepney and Shoreditch which now overflowed. And food deliveries had dried up.
He let his eyes flick over the last few lines of the report, hardly caring what they said. But the words were enough to surprise him.
The Sealed Knot, Blackstone wrote, consisted of many powerful and important men. Most had died or vanished after the Civil War. But one name very high on the list still worked in the city.
Amesbury had been a member of the Sealed Knot.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Charlie awoke to a mouth full of dust. He rolled upright trying to work out where he was. The blinding sunlight and the empty dirt track told him nothing. Rubbing his face he tried to remember how he’d got there. Then it came to him.
The wagon.
And Maria. Maria was gone.
Pained from the impact he struggled up and limped along in the direction of the wagon for a few moments before accepting pursuit was useless. Malvern’s vehicle had disappeared far ahead.
Charlie took a moment to assess his situation before deciding it was worse than hopeless. The wagon couldn’t have taken him more than a few miles out of Wapping. And the fastest route to London was the most dangerous. It would take him days to track round to the north and enter that way.
