by C. S. Quinn
It was wrought in metal and attached to an unusual looking trunk. The design was Dutch and the largest she had ever seen. A sea-chest, she decided, looking at the make of it. The kind of strong box you would need to store all your worldly valuables on a voyage, protected from the elements.
She thought of Charlie’s key. Too small for a door. Too large for a chest. But this chest. This outsized chest might fit.
There was a fluttering sound. Pigeons. She had seen a cage of them in the wagon. He used them to send messages, and she had seen him set the cage in the cemetery outside the church. No doubt they were part of his wider plot.
But the knowledge was useless to her in her current situation.
Maria twisted hard in her bindings. The ropes had been secured tightly enough to cut into her skin, and every movement hurt. Steeling herself against the pain, she bucked and writhed, managing to point her bound hands towards her hip, where her purse hung.
Was there a needle as she hoped? Her fingers fumbled, catching the edge of her purse, and she stifled a cry of pain as the ropes bit deeper.
Finally the edge of her little finger caught the top of the purse. She manoeuvred it awkwardly, delving inside. Her fingertips first seized on the wax cosmetic, and she cursed. Groping further inside, she explored the edges for a hidden needle.
But there was nothing but a few coins. A great surge of hopelessness swelled up, and she drove down the urge to cry.
The heavy sound of a door closing echoed across the church, and she froze.
Footsteps rang across the flagstones.
For a moment she caught a flash of heavy canvas cloak. And then, standing in front of her with his ghastly iron mask, was the plague doctor.
She felt her lungs contract. The beak tilted to one side and then back again. Then the great mask dropped down so as to hold its glittering crystal goggles level with her face. Two black unblinking holes stared out. Maria dropped her gaze, trying to steady her breathing.
The monster spoke and her heart pounded anew.
‘You remind me of my wife.’ The voice was low and distorted by the mask.
Maria stared back into the glass eyes.
‘Shall I tell you what happened to her?’
The plague doctor settled himself a little nearer and Maria pressed herself back against the tomb.
‘She had been sent to a nunnery for her own protection,’ he said. ‘For Civil War was rife and you have likely heard what Protestant soldiers did to the wives of rich Catholics.’
Malvern peered at her face for a moment. ‘You are too young to remember,’ he decided. ‘What terrible deeds were committed then. You may think now is a dread time to be Catholic in London.’ He gave a low humourless laugh. ‘Men never did worse things than to their own countrymen in the name of God.’
‘I was but a boy when I saw soldiers murder my parents. They let me live. But I sometimes wonder if that was a mercy.’ He brought the gloved fingers to where his mouth might have been. ‘You do not think in the same way,’ he said. ‘Some things you see and they change the way you think. You do not feel for your fellow man as you once did.’
‘By the time the Civil War was over, I had lost all,’ Malvern continued. ‘But I still had my wife. She at least was safe from the horrors.’
He looked thoughtful at this, as though the image of his wife had fortified him through horrors.
‘And then they told me,’ he said, the emotion drained from his voice. ‘At first I would not believe it for myself. When I found her . . . .’
There was a long pause.
‘When I found her they were keeping her locked in the barn. She was roaming around on all fours. No better than the animals penned in there with her.’
The gloved hands began to rub together. ‘I never found out what they did to her.’
He stopped as if unable to verbalise the memory. ‘Those of us who fought for the King thought we would be rewarded. And now his son has returned and betrayed us.’
He took a little roll of paper from inside his cloak.
‘This is his downfall. This little roll of paper. When it arrives, London will fall and then England. The King will arrive back to find his country is ruined.’
A sound which could have been a laugh issued from behind the metal mask.
‘They think I spread plague, those country fools who try to slow my journey,’ he said. ‘But I spread something far more powerful in the City. The contamination I bring will force the traitor King to his knees. And it is the greed of his own people who bring his downfall, for they take my infection to every place in the city.’
Malvern moved closer to Maria suddenly.
‘It has always interested me, the difference between Catholics and Protestants. On what can be borne in silence.’
The low voice had a different texture to it now.
Maria noticed the bag. It must have been inside Malvern’s cloak, but he had brought it out as he talked. Well-worn leather, like a workman’s satchel.
Inside she could make out the glint of iron tools. Brands and pincers. Torturer’s tools. The implements made by the Thames Street blacksmith flashed through her mind.
‘My wife is not with us now,’ said Malvern. ‘But she is owed a final spell. A water spell.’
He considered for a moment.
‘I know not how she might perform it, so I must improvise,’ he said, moving closer. Malvern’s hand glided reverently over the iron tools. His eyes glittered.
Maria’s body had set to cold hard ice.
‘How do you think your faith will fare,’ asked Malvern. ‘When unspeakable things are done to you?’
Chapter Seventy-One
It took over four hours to sail up the river and Charlie felt the fear build every second.
Then the edge of St Katherine’s dock finally hove into view.
A gust of wind blew along the ship and men called for the sails to turn.
‘Wait but a little and we will dock you safe to shore,’ said Marc-Anthony. ‘You had best not swim the waters in plague time.’
The wait was agonising and the view more terrible as the docks inched closed.
St Katherine’s docks housed the squat shape of Customs House, and the area was usually teeming with sailors and export officials, traders and retailers all eager to deal in imported merchandise. Today there was no one.
Charlie looked to Marc-Anthony and his friend’s face said it all. He plainly thought a journey into the heart of London to be a suicide mission.
The ship drew level with the dock and Charlie made a heartfelt thanks before hopping to dry land. Behind him the sailors leapt into action, swinging the sails with loud shouts in their urgency to get back out onto the wider river.
Charlie took in the deserted docks. The only import sat on the once heaving wharves was a single barrel which buzzed with flies. It was a shipment of cod and peas, which had been broken open and spoiled.
Turning from the sad scene Charlie made his way west, following the river towards London Bridge.
Along the shore the huge warehouses had been looted. When he passed London Bridge he gasped aloud in horror.
London Bridge was formed of thick arches which slowed the river to a crawl during summer and caused it to freeze over entirely in winter. The narrow apertures had been stopped up with hundreds of bloated-blue corpses. A handful lolled at the shore, but the current had swept the rest to a thick cluster which bottle-necked against the stricture of the brick bridge. There were so many that they formed a ghoulish dam to the natural tide.
The people floated naked, or dressed in thin vestiges of decayed clothing. Partial dress revealed the skin from their limbs peeling away in black ulcerations. Their stomachs bulged at the surface, distended and huge, whilst their legs and arms hung limply underwater.
Charlie looked for any evidence that anyone was trying to clear the waterway of its unholy cargo. There was none. No one had even tried.
Swallowing hard, Charlie turned back inland. Time was runn
ing out.
He made his route to Alders Gate through what were once the most populated places. But the sights swelled the unease in his stomach to horror. Leadenhall showed stand after empty stand, and a litter of filth had blown into the unkempt marketplace on the breeze.
He passed a church where the mass graves were over-filled and rotting Londoners burst above ground.
At first he didn’t recognise Fen Church Street at all. Grass and thistles had knotted up amongst the pavements.
The plague must have run unchecked here for months, he realised, with no authority realising how bad the spread. Nature was halfway to reclaiming the district. Another month, he thought, and the ground level would be entirely swallowed up.
Charlie had expected the plague would have him mourn people. But he had never thought it would be his own City he grieved for.
Chapter Seventy-Two
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
It took all of Mayor Lawrence’s attention. The restriction on his breathing had come so suddenly. He had heard of plague cases where a victim complained of a headache and was dead within the hour. But he had not even felt the headache. Only the sudden weight of breathing as his lungs began to stop working.
It has come so fast.
Lawrence tried to remember when breathing had first become hard, trying to calculate how long he had left. An hour? Two?
He saw Blackstone close on the doorway.
‘Keep away,’ he managed.
It occurred to Lawrence he should be embarrassed to be found crawling like a dog on his own office floor. As it was he was only glad Blackstone had returned.
‘Would you have me call a holy man?’
Lawrence smiled through the pain. Blackstone always knew the right thing to do. ‘There are none . . . there are none of my faith in the City.’ Talking was exhausting.
‘Some food then? Or water?’
Lawrence shook his head.
‘I have good news,’ said Blackstone. He did not wait for Lawrence to reply. ‘It is the King. He returns.’
‘The King . . . thinks . . . plague has died down?’
Blackstone answered carefully. ‘He knows of the good we do in keeping the streets cleared of bodies,’ he said. ‘And the numbers have fallen a little. It could be a good sign.’
Lawrence tried to focus.
‘Blackstone?’
‘Yes Sir?’
‘I have . . . There is provision. For you.’
Blackstone was silent.
‘I have made it . . . . Alderman. Appointed.’
‘Thank you Sir.’ Blackstone looked at the ground. He and Lawrence had been colleagues but they hadn’t been close. Certainly he had never expected to rise to any higher role on Mayor Lawrence’s recommendation.
‘There is something . . .’ said Lawrence.
‘What?’
‘In the City. Priests. Could you . . . send for one?’
Blackstone shook his head sadly. ‘All the Protestant priests have fled. Those you hear preaching now are Catholics. They have come to attend to their own people.’
‘Please,’ said Lawrence. ‘Any priest you can . . . find.’
Blackstone nodded, dumbfounded.
‘Do not tell anyone,’ said Lawrence. Tears began to roll down his cheeks.
‘You must not fear for the City sir,’ said Blackstone.
‘There are papers in my office,’ Lawrence managed. ‘Amesbury. You must discover his connection to the Sealed Knot. I think he means to betray the King.’
‘I would help you to a bed,’ started Blackstone, but Lawrence shook his head.
Blackstone headed back into Lawrence’s room.
Scattered on the desk were a number of different papers. They numbered the figures of the dying which had steadily risen from February. The last balance sheet showed a hundred thousand dead.
‘A quarter of the City,’ he murmured. ‘And all the rest fled.’
Sifting through the documents he came across those which numbered the dead of the city officials. Lords, members of parliament, searchers and nurses. Death did not discriminate. Although the poor, as usual, were more vulnerable at the onset. Then he noticed something about the figures. Or more precisely, about the occupation of those who had died.
The rat catchers, he noticed, seemed to have a greater tendency to plague than any other profession.
He sat down for a moment to think about the discovery. And then he heard a loud voice from outside.
Blackstone looked out the diamond-paned window. What he saw outside brought his first real smile in months. Perhaps years. It was a Catholic priest. He had taken to a public pulpit and was preaching openly in the centre of London. Such a thing had never happened in Blackstone’s lifetime.
Sitting back at the desk he let the feeling of wonder wash over him. Then his eyes fell back down to the dead count. For the briefest of moments the gaze rested on a paper with Amesbury’s name on it. And a familiar symbol.
Slowly, Blackstone stood. He bundled the documents and pushed them into a drawer. Then he shut it carefully.
There was important business to attend to.
Chapter Seventy-Three
As Charlie approached Fen Church a low kind of groaning went up.
He remembered Wapping. That the dead crawled to die in the sight of a church.
As the doorway of the church came into view Charlie caught sight of a thick swathe of infected Londoners. Some were clawing ineffectually, trying to get inside, but many others were sat blankly on their haunches, staring at the building as if willing it to open up.
A handful could be mistaken for ordinary citizens, but most had more evident tokens. Blue fingers, or swollen necks or creeping purple veins inching over their cheeks. Between them they made a horrific hum of pain and despair.
Keeping back from the entrance Charlie slipped around the side of the church. To his relief no plague sufferers had migrated towards the graveyard and the fence was low.
He scaled it into the graveyard with relative ease. Inside the fence it was overgrown with grass and the ancient graves of long dead Londoners. Night had fallen properly now, and in the pitch-black the white of the tombstones stuck out like giant teeth.
Heading towards the back of the ancient graveyard Charlie drew a breath. Tombstones had been flung aside. He scanned the church for a route in.
Then he saw a huge pit, freshly dug, lay open in the middle of the cemetery.
He drew nearer. Deep in the bottom of the pit lay corpse after corpse thrown headlong over one another and wrapped winding sheets.
Plague pits are not filled with bodies wrapped in winding sheets. They are for pauper’s corpses.
There was a cooing sound. As if a flock of pigeons were nearby.
This was probably what Malvern transported, Charlie realised. Flung into this grave and disguised as bodies.
He looked up at the church. Knowing Malvern’s plans could give him an advantage for freeing Maria, if he was fast.
For a moment Charlie’s courage failed him. In the darkness it was impossible to tell whether the pit of dead was real or of Malvern’s construction.
Steeling himself he crouched and then leapt downwards. His feet collided with hard metal and the impact threw him painfully to his knees. The rabbit gun which Marc-Anthony had given him fell clumsily away, but to his relief it didn’t discharge.
Wasting no time, Charlie stuck his knife into the fabric and ripped into it. The hidden contents of the winding sheet now sparkled into the moonlight.
It held silver coins. Thousands of them.
He slashed into another, and the same glittering innards spilled forth.
‘Shillings.’ He said it aloud as the tiny silver coins winked out into the grave. So this was Malvern’s cargo. Shillings.
His first thought was that someone was financing Malvern to build an army.
But it didn’t make any sense.
Why would they send such small coins? La
rger currency would be far easier to transport and smuggle in. Jewels, gold bars, there were so many better ways to provide illegal finance.
Unless . . . .
He reached into his coat and removed the map he had found in the confession booth. Then picked up one of the coins and studied it for a moment. In the darkness a slow understanding spread across Charlie’s face.
Counterfeits. They were counterfeit coins.
The crosses on the map didn’t mark the most populated places. They showed areas of high commerce. Markets, shops and taverns. Malvern chose locations where money entered the economy quickly and without trace. Outlets which distributed coins widely within London.
So this was the scheme. This was the contamination Malvern had planned.
The money was not to finance an uprising. It was to undermine the English economy.
Charlie let out a slow breath. So Malvern was spreading an infection in London. But it was not some contagious disease. He was masterminding the spread of false coins.
Charlie considered this. A few forged coins could be easily absorbed.
But release enough of a fake currency at once, and it would undermine the treasury. Prices would skyrocket as coins became lower in value. And then the bloated economy would collapse.
Suddenly the plot became obvious. Malvern meant to cripple the King where it mattered most – his treasury.
Presumably whatever weapons he was amassing would be put to use afterwards. After the monarchy had fallen.
But to successfully undermine the treasury, Malvern would need to release thousands of coins, and all at the same time. How could he spend them all at once?
Then Charlie remembered Malvern’s bets at the gambling house. And it all made sense.
He doesn’t bet to win. He bets to lose those coins.
Malvern was betting to lose. And when he did the gaming houses would release his forged coins in a flood amongst the rich aristocrats of the west.
Using winding sheets to conceal the imports and burying the loot in a graveyard was another inspired touch. No citizen would come within a mile of a plague pit, far less open up the wrappings of a corpse.
