by C. S. Quinn
From the other side of the tavern Charlie smiled up at Maria and they raised their tankards in a joint toast.
Since the cooler weather, London had made a miraculous recovery from plague, and her returning and surviving citizens had taken the opportunity for weeklong celebrations. Since the last case had been reported in September the City had transformed from an outpost to its former thriving glory in under a week.
Ships began to dock again and traders and shoppers set upon the glut of new imports with gusto. Theatres were reopened, taverns found themselves packed to the rafters, and Leadenhall Market enjoyed the only thorough scrub down in its three-hundred-year history before being packed out once more with fresh produce.
For the first time ever locals had taken their duty to maintain the streets outside their houses seriously. And whilst legislation had never been able to persuade them to clear rubbish or fix cobbles, the sight of their overgrown streets had them out in droves weeding and repairing.
The plague seemed to have drawn out a yen in its survivors to play the good citizen. And even the floods of returning aristocrats clubbed together for a new riverside location for the washerwomen, now that Moor Fields had become a burial site.
To make up for his abandonment King Charles doubled his visits to the general populace and the sight of the Royal party on the City streets was a colourful addition to the troops of brightly-dressed ladies capitalising on the lost opportunities for fashion.
Lynette had returned to London in all her finery and her stage performances were as popular as ever. But Charlie didn’t feel the same tug of heartache when he saw his estranged wife arm in arm with one of her patrons. In fact he felt sorry for her. It must be hard work, he thought, being her.
Charlie and Maria looked out at the laughing company in the Bucket of Blood. A familiar ragged form stepped up behind then.
‘You found anything else out about this Blackstone then?’
Charlie smiled. Since the night in Fen Church, Bitey had become fascinated with the mystery of Blackstone’s disappearance.
The old man shook his head in wonderment.
‘He must have been some fiend or witch,’ he said. ‘For how else could this man have had plague, yet cleared out all evidence of his treasonous ways before you could bring the constable?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Perhaps he had help. Certainly he was clever in what he took. All his household possessions gone, but the grave filled with shillings. The money must have been too difficult for him to remove in time.’
‘And he took away that chest,’ said Bitey, his eyes glowing at the puzzle of it, ‘Something locked inside might tell you of your mother.’ He pointed to the key which still hung at Charlie’s neck.
‘The Sealed Knot,’ muttered Bitey, repeating the words which had been linked with the crown and the knots in Malvern’s trunk. ‘I feel in my bones I have heard those words before. Long ago. During the Civil War. But I cannot say where or how.’ He shook his head as if trying to jolt free the memory and then frowned, defeated.
‘If it were not for the foolishness of the constable we might know more,’ said Maria. ‘He would not accept that the coins were part of a plot. He thought it was simply the work of a clever forger who had likely died of plague and no darker purpose was at work.’
Bitey took a philosophical sip of his beer.
‘Perhaps better to let sleeping dogs lie then,’ he said, ‘for the time being at least.’ He looked up at Charlie. ‘You been to St Paul’s today?’
‘Earlier today,’ said Charlie, raising his tankard to Bitey.
‘We shall drink to her then. Her and the City.’
Charlie mourned his mother at St Paul’s, joined by countless Londoners who had also lost relatives to unknown burial plots. Understanding the people needed somewhere to grieve their missing dead, King Charles had granted them the Cathedral. Within the high holy walls one death became everyone’s and strangers held hands and cried in one another’s arms.
Charlie raised his tankard in reply. Then something occurred to him. There was someone who had now returned to the City who he owed a visit.
‘Put down a bet on the second fighter,’ he said, sliding a coin towards Bitey. ‘There is someone I must see.’
Charlie knew that one tough-minded female would not have stood for anything so inconvenient as illness. And as he travelled the comforting leafy streets of Mayfair to Mother Mitchell’s sumptuous townhouse he was unsurprised to find her safe and well.
During the plague she had taken the precaution of an ornamental silver tobacco pipe which she now smoked constantly. The use of it had given her throaty laugh an extra gravelly texture. Fumes wreathed her silken bulk.
‘Plenty of work for us cheering the folk in country houses, with all so sad and dour,’ explained Mother Mitchell.
She coughed and adjusted her enormous dress as Charlie explained the events of the past few days.
‘Many royal plots and companies were formed during the war,’ she said, ‘perhaps some evil sect lingers still.’
‘Blackstone’s wife said my key holds the sign of the Sealed Knot,’ said Charlie.
‘It sounds familiar to me. And yet I do not know how. Do you know of it?’ he added, knowing that if ancient Bitey knew nothing of the phrase then Mother Mitchell was unlikely to either.
But to his surprise Mother Mitchell stayed stock-still for a long moment, before nodding her head slowly.
‘Aye, I have heard something of that,’ she said. ‘From long ago.’ She lifted her eyes to meet Charlie’s. ‘The Sealed Knot was a secret group of noblemen,’ she said. ‘They formed during the Civil War. I know not their purpose. Only a little chatter from those high-born men who have passed through my arms and are too free with the secrets of their fellows. The Sealed Knot will have either won or lost with the late King’s execution and whatever their cause laid to rest with it. But the men who were part of it were dangerous Charlie. Rich, powerful and war-hungry all.’
A secret company of noblemen, formed during the Civil War. Charlie considered the information as he pushed through the teeming square of Covent Garden and back into the Bucket of Blood.
One of the fighters was late to the tavern, and Maria and Bitey were watching the landlord try to calm the riled-up crowd as Charlie returned to his seat.
‘Smell that?’ said Bitey, turning slightly to clap him on the back in welcome. ‘That’s winter on the air. All’s well that ends well, eh?’
‘Why say you so?’ asked Maria.
‘Plague don’t live through winter girl, everyone knows that.’
‘And what about next year?’ insisted Maria. ‘It is 1666. Dark things are predicted by the astrologers. Fiery comets, low tides. ‘It is the year of the devil’s number.’
Bitey laughed, waving an expansive hand to the wider city. ‘This whole sorry pile of timber might burn down next summer for all we know. Best to take one day at a time in this uncertain life and be grateful for those days that treat you well.’
‘And is this a day that is treating you well Bitey?’ asked Charlie, his mind still racing with thoughts of the Sealed Knot.
‘Oh I should say so Charlie.’ Bitey opened his cloak to reveal the soft snout of a tiny piglet.
Maria gave a gasp of delight and put out a hand to stroke the animal. It pushed its face into her palm and grunted.
‘Found this little fellow snuffling about near Holbourne with nowhere to go,’ said Bitey. ‘Reckon if he grows fast ’twill be only a month afore chops and ribs a’plenty.’ He licked his lips. ‘I should say Charlie, this is shaping up to be a very good day indeed. I have heard you are very busy with murder as well as thievery these days,’ he added.
It was true. Since word got out that he took on cases more diverse than theft Charlie had been besieged with Londoners wanting all kinds of crimes solved. It seemed that incompetence in the City’s Watch didn’t stop at stealing. His services were so popular in the west that he could afford to keep his lodging
in the Covent Garden butcher’s shop. He was even considering renting a place where he and Maria could both live together.
Charlie looked hard into his tankard of ale, thinking of the Sealed Knot, the secrets in Blackstone’s missing chest and what they might still mean for England.
‘There are crimes enough,’ he said to Bitey. ‘To keep me very busy indeed.’
Hungry for more Thief Taker intrigue?
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Acknowledgments
Books are a funny business. When I first started writing for publication, female authors of historical thrillers were a hard sell. Agents and publishers agreed my stories had something, but they thought I should be more like Philippa Gregory. Then a miracle happened. My brilliant twin sister (and bestselling author), Susanna Quinn, introduced me to the world of self-publishing. And in a fit of optimistic experimentation, I penned a romance novel which went on to sell 150,000 copies.
Suddenly it wasn’t quite so important to be published. But fate is a fickle thing. And just at that moment I met the most amazing agent and friend in Piers Blofeld, who thought my historical thrillers deserved an audience. Piers found lots of publishers who wanted The Thief-Taker. And its strength, they felt, was it wasn’t like Philippa Gregory at all.
So this book is dedicated to the many people who helped me on the long road to publication. Thanks to Kevin Harris, for giving great feedback on far too many early drafts, Laura Langthorne (on whom Maria is based), for perfect improvements and Don Quinn for suggesting Maria shouldn’t die, and that a few more brothels wouldn’t go amiss. And where would I be without my soulmate Simon Avery, whose contrasting shouts of ‘this is brilliant!’ and ‘this is boring!’ have made the book what it is? Emilie Marneur at Amazon Publishing, you are not only gracious enough to treat me as a fellow professional, but you introduced me to the eagle-eyed Katie Green, who did amazing editorial work on the book. If Carlsberg made publishers they would look something like yours. I’ve also been fantastically lucky with the incredibly generous Peter James, Simon Toyne and Louise Voss. I am forever indebted to your kind testimonials. You are all proof positive that hugely successful authors are kind beyond belief. Finally, my enormous gratitude goes to the Amazon self-publishing platform, which has made it possible for me, and many others, to achieve paid employment as a writer.
Oh, and not forgetting my sincere thanks to Philippa Gregory ;)
About the Author
Photo © Richard Bolls
C.S. Quinn is a travel and lifestyle journalist for The Times, The Guardian and The Mirror, alongside many magazines. Prior to this, Quinn’s background in historic research won prestigious postgraduate funding from the British Art Council. Quinn pooled these resources, combining historical research with first-hand experiences in far-flung places to create The Thief Taker’s London.
