Fire Catcher

by C. S. Quinn

  ‘We’ve been carrying a clue to Blackstone all along.’ Charlie pointed to the round robin. ‘This paper of common men’s names. They’re not names. They’re guilds.’

  Lily peered at the paper, mouthing the words.

  ‘Saddler, Goldsmith, Cooper . . .’

  She looked up at Charlie in amazement.

  ‘Cutler, Cook, Barber,’ she read. Her eyes flicked up to Charlie. ‘The Cutlers’ Guild. The Worshipful Company of Cooks, the Barbers’ Company.’ She looked at him. ‘You have it right. They are guilds, every one.’

  ‘Nine names,’ said Charlie. ‘And there are ten guilds in the city. So whichever guild is not on here,’ he stabbed the paper, ‘that is Blackstone’s guild.’

  They looked back at the map in earnest. Lily’s finger shot out.

  ‘Here!’ she said. ‘Soapmaker. Blackstone is of the Soapmakers’ Guild.’

  They looked at one another.

  ‘Lye,’ said Lily. ‘Lye is not just for laundresses. The best soapmakers use lye.’

  ‘So Blackstone uses lye,’ said Charlie. ‘To make balls of soap. That’s how he comes to know the alchemy. The guild of soapmakers taught him their secrets.’

  ‘Which guilds store their goods here?’ Charlie called to one of the apprentice boys struggling with the painting.

  ‘All of them.’ The boy seemed confused by the question. ‘Every guildsman is entitled to keep possessions in the vaults,’ he added, pointing to a heavily bolted and locked door. ‘But the vaults are full. No one allowed in.’

  Charlie and Lily looked at one another. The entrance seemed impregnable.

  ‘Did a man come bearing this mark?’ asked Charlie, holding up his key. ‘A soapmaker?’ But the boy only shook his head and hurried away.

  ‘We need to get inside,’ said Charlie, eyeing the ornate stone-carved front of Guildhall. A huge door decorated with gargoyle heads was open a crack.

  ‘Perhaps if we can get into Guildhall,’ he suggested, ‘there’ll be another way down to the vaults.’

  ‘There’s no way into Guildhall,’ said Lily, looking at the burly men on the door. ‘It’s heavily guarded.’

  ‘They’ll guard it until fire is at the door,’ agreed Charlie, looking at a well-dressed Alderman with two large guards. ‘Knowing the guilds there’ll be some sign or secret words to get inside.’

  ‘Do you know it?’

  Charlie shook his head.

  ‘Being part of a guild is about integrity,’ he said. ‘Keeping your word. Working hard. Freemen believe that noble deeds outweigh noble birth.’

  ‘Freemen?’

  ‘It’s the title of a man once he’s joined a guild,’ said Charlie. ‘A freeman of the city.’

  Charlie eyed the entrance thoughtfully. He turned his key.

  ‘All guilds have a motto or some such. The right words would get us inside.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘They won’t let us in the Guild without authority,’ he said. ‘But Guildhall is part of St Lawrence Jewry church. The Mayor’s church. By rights every Londoner should be entitled to say their prayers inside. Come on,’ he decided. ‘Nothing ventured nothing gained.’

  And he walked purposefully to the door with Lily shuffling uncertainly behind. The Alderman was looking at Charlie’s feet as they approached.

  ‘The crypts are full,’ said the Alderman. ‘And for guildsmen only.’

  ‘I wish to enter the church,’ said Charlie. ‘To say a prayer for the city.’

  The guards rearranged themselves.

  ‘The church is for freemen of the guilds only,’ said the Alderman. ‘And fire will be here soon. You’d best get yourself and your wife to safety.’

  ‘I’m London born,’ said Charlie. ‘The King decrees I have the right to pray in the Mayor’s church.’

  The Alderman shook his head. ‘The King might say so. But he has no sway here. Here is Guildhall law. And we say our men only.’

  Charlie held up his key. ‘I’m of the guilds,’ he improvised. ‘I’ve already brought goods. For Master Blackstone. Of the soapmakers.’

  The Alderman looked at him. ‘I don’t recognise the sign,’ he said. ‘Each guild has their own marks and practices I suppose.’

  ‘Fire comes,’ said Charlie, desperately turning over what could gain them entry. ‘Master Blackstone wants a prayer said to be sure it won’t burn.’

  ‘The whole of Guildhall could burn and the crypt will hold,’ said the Alderman. ‘It’s stood since old King Stephen.’ His tone became sardonic. ‘I hear Blackstone’s soap is bought by the King’s ladies,’ he added. ‘So he might use Barbara Castlemaine’s personal quarters.’ The Alderman winked at the guard.

  ‘I hear she is generous with them,’ sniggered the guard.

  ‘Guilds only in the church.’ The Alderman’s eyes settled back on Charlie. He seemed to be waiting for something.

  ‘Lord guide us,’ said Charlie, trying for the Lord Mayor of London’s motto. The Alderman’s face shifted. It hadn’t been the answer he was looking for.

  ‘We must hope so,’ he replied, looking up to the heavens. ‘Tell Master Blackstone he must come in person if he wishes entry. Or send a boy of the guild.’ He waved his hand and the guard adjusted his stance.

  Charlie’s heart sank. There was no other way into Guildhall. He felt something at his ear. Lily was leaning close.

  ‘Freemen of the City. Breed not birth right,’ she whispered.

  Charlie looked at her. Then he repeated the words to the Alderman, who was looking at Lily.

  There was a slight pause. Then the Alderman nodded and moved away from the door.

  ‘That’s Guildhall password,’ he said. ‘So I must let you enter. Work with honour and keep our word,’ he added. ‘You might go in the church if you wish but you are foolish. Our firefighters have fallen to disarray. If flames come we can’t hold them.’

  Chapter 110

  Amesbury’s face was wracked with confusion.

  ‘So lead into gold. It isn’t real?’

  ‘Not in the way it’s commonly understood,’ replied the alchemist. ‘There are men who spend their lives trying to make gold. But they’re not true alchemists.’

  ‘But the Philosopher’s Stone . . .’

  ‘Is a story,’ said the alchemist. ‘A story to separate the unworthy from true alchemists. Alchemists don’t grub for treasure,’ he added. ‘We seek to change the leaden mortal mind to the gold of enlightenment.’

  ‘This is your lead into gold? The Magnus Opus?’ said Amesbury. ‘Your great work?’

  The alchemist nodded. ‘Enlightenment is the work of a lifetime. The path is different for everyone. Kaballah shows us steps to meditate upon. Tarot maps the journey. I believe some guilds have their own practices. The masons meditate upon death.’

  Amesbury was nodding slowly.

  ‘Torr’s lead into gold,’ he said, ‘was a means to acquire riches.’

  ‘Torr is a master of allegory,’ said the alchemist. ‘Spinning stories to hide truths. I think his lead to gold tells a different story. A power more . . . earthly.’

  ‘The universal marriage,’ said Amesbury. ‘That’s part of the story. The most sacred and powerful marriage.’

  ‘That suggests more practical alchemy,’ said the alchemist. ‘The masculine and feminine. A marriage of the elements.’

  Amesbury’s brow furrowed in thought. ‘Blackstone married a madwoman,’ he said. ‘She couldn’t bear him children. No one knows why. There was some fine horrors which happened because of civil war. Royalists married to secure money for war. There were precious few love matches.’ Amesbury seemed to be turning this around in his mind.

  ‘For alchemists gold is metaphorical,’ said the alchemist.

  Amesbury felt there was some very obvious answer, but it kept sliding around at the edge of his thoughts.

  ‘The only person who can answer your questions is Torr,’ said the alchemist. ‘He made the story. He knows the truth at the heart of the all
egory.’

  ‘I fear Torr,’ said Amesbury, ‘is long gone.’

  ‘What of the other plot you spoke of?’ asked the alchemist. ‘You found fireballs in the royal apartments. Stamped with the sign of the Sealed Knot.’

  Amesbury waved his hand distractedly.

  ‘I was mistaken,’ he said. ‘An old member of the Sealed Knot joined a guild and had a fancy to use the symbol on his soap.’ He mimed with his hands. ‘Soap-balls, fireballs,’ he shrugged. ‘They can look almost identical.’

  Amesbury gave a little smile. ‘The courtly women were sneaking Blackstone into the Palace, trying to keep their soap purchases secret,’ he said, conspiratorially. ‘They were ashamed the King would learn of their measures to look youthful.’

  To Amesbury’s surprise the alchemist laughed.

  ‘Women will go to greater lengths for vanity than anything I have ever encountered,’ he said.

  ‘It caused a lot of confusion,’ said Amesbury. ‘Barbara Castlemaine I can understand,’ he added. ‘When her looks fade, she’ll have nothing. But I didn’t expect such behaviour from the Queen.’

  The alchemist shrugged. ‘Women,’ he said simply, ‘will be all our undoing.’

  Chapter 111

  ‘How did you know the Guildhall password?’ asked Charlie as they moved inside the cool interior of St Lawrence Jewry.

  ‘It was written on their painting,’ said Lily. ‘The one they were taking to safety. And I’ve seen it written before. Every guild has a tapestry or a wooden carving with those words.’

  ‘Not such a good secret,’ observed Charlie.

  ‘No,’ said Lily. ‘Perhaps they’re not so concerned with hiding away as people imagine.’

  They were in the vast church now. It was stripped completely bare and deserted.

  ‘This way,’ said Charlie. ‘That door leads straight into Guildhall.’

  They followed it through.

  ‘No one to guard,’ observed Lily.

  ‘Nothing to guard,’ corrected Charlie as they moved into the vast white stone interior of Guildhall. ‘It’s been cleared. Not even a tapestry or a candlestick left. All is in the vault.’

  He pointed to the solid stone floor beneath their feet.

  ‘What should we do?’ asked Lily. ‘We wanted to be in the vaults. We’re only in the church. The entrance is outside and guarded.’

  Charlie was looking around for a possible way down. There was none apparent.

  ‘Guildhall vaults are an old crypt,’ said Charlie, thinking aloud. ‘Those big giants. Gog and Magog. They are Roman leavings. This whole place is an old Roman church.’

  He rubbed his forehead.

  ‘In old churches, there is always another route into the crypt. Under the altar.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Lily.

  ‘I’ve chased a few tomb raiders in my time. They always break in through the altar.’

  ‘So how do we find the altar?’ Lily was looking into Guildhall’s grand vaulted ceiling. ‘This building hasn’t been a church for hundreds of years.’

  Charlie was taking an angle of the sun.

  ‘Altars are east facing,’ he said, pointing to the back of the building. ‘We will try there.’

  They moved to the back of the grand hall and Charlie studied the black mosaic floor carefully.

  ‘Here,’ he said finally. ‘And here. See it is brighter in colour. It makes a cross shape. If it was an altar, it was big,’ he added.

  Lily nodded.

  ‘So where is the crypt entrance?’ she said, studying the floor. ‘There is nothing to mark it.’

  Charlie scanned to where the centre of the altar would have been. He strode over and dropped to his knees.

  ‘See here?’ he said triumphantly. ‘This is newer and a little higher. This mosaic has been added. The tiles are not so worn at the edges.’

  Glancing about he removed his knife and inserted it down the side of a tile. It lifted out easily. Underneath was wood and Charlie worked to remove three more tiles.

  ‘We can get in here,’ he said. ‘It is only planks over the old stone entrance.’

  Using both arms he heaved and pulled back the wooden covering. A cloud of dusty smoke cleared to reveal a narrow set of steps.

  ‘There is a way down!’ he exclaimed, looking excitedly at Lily. She grinned and moved behind him as he lowered himself on to the stair.

  The steps were steep and bowed into the middle from centuries of use. They turned in a sharp spiral downwards.

  At the bottom of the steps Charlie stopped in wonder. The crypt was enormous, stretching the length of the entire Guildhall above. It was crested with a thick ceiling of vaulted stone, supported by heavy branching pillars. And it was stuffed to bursting point with merchants’ valuables.

  Charlie breathed out. It was a thieves’ paradise.

  ‘Look at this,’ he whispered as Lily bumped into him in her haste to get off the dark stair. She gave a gratifying gasp at the sight of the booty.

  ‘Every rich merchant in London must hide his goods here,’ said Charlie.

  ‘So how might we find Blackstone’s valuables?’ asked Lily, scanning the gloom.

  Charlie followed the direction of her gaze. The Guildhall crypt was like a stone forest of branching pillars. Some possessions seemed to obey a kind of order. But most seemed randomly flung.

  ‘Household things there,’ Charlie muttered. ‘Furniture and the like. That pile has many barrels, perhaps for vintners . . . It’s by guild,’ he decided eventually. ‘But we need to know what order they are arranged.’

  ‘By letter?’ suggested Lily, studying the piles. ‘Brewers, carpenters?’

  Charlie shook his head.

  ‘Remember these are guilds. They all have their secret codes and systems. It would be nothing so simple.’

  ‘The Tree of Life?’ suggested Lily. ‘You saw it in the Cutlers’ Guild.’

  ‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘The cutlers are wealthy. Educated. They might teach these mystical practices. But a fishmonger or a barber?’ he shook his head. ‘Their initiation ceremonies will be a keg of beer and an argument.’

  Lily scanned the piles, then marched towards a sturdy looking barrel and split open the top with a closed fist.

  ‘Do you discover something?’ asked Charlie, frowning at the ordinary looking barrel.

  ‘Wine,’ she said, leaning down and scooping several handfuls to her mouth. ‘Helps me to think.’

  Lily sucked her teeth and wiped her mouth. Then she sat and looked out into the wide crypt.

  ‘It’s so still down here,’ she said. ‘Peaceful. Hard to imagine out there the world is ending.’

  Charlie took out his tankard and scooped out some wine. He sat by her and offered her a sip. She took it and passed the tankard back.

  ‘Maybe it is,’ said Charlie, taking a long swig. The cool quiet of Guildhall was a sudden relief. ‘But I think this fire has been in the making a long time.’

  He took another swig and passed the wine back to Lily.

  ‘Do you think to leave the city?’ she said. ‘Now so much is burned?’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘What of you?’ he asked. ‘Do you miss your gypsy caravan?’ He couldn’t imagine being nostalgic for the dirty dangerous countryside.

  ‘I miss…’ she paused. ‘The fireside stories. The camaraderie of it. You don’t find that in the city.’

  ‘You do,’ said Charlie, thinking of the Bucket of Blood. ‘Sometimes country people don’t know where to look.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Lily. ‘But it’s people that make home. When Blackstone killed my father, he took away my place in the world.’

  Her eyes flashed pain. And for the first time Charlie had an understanding of how much sadness she’d carried.

  ‘You left everything you knew to avenge your father,’ he said. ‘Takes bravery, that. More than I can imagine.’

  She didn’t answer, only took out her knife and scraped at the stone floor.


  ‘I don’t want vengeance,’ she said. ‘I want my father’s soul to be at peace.’

  ‘What makes you think it isn’t?’

  Lily bit her lip. ‘There was a bird at his grave,’ she said. ‘A little blackbird. With a yellow beak.’

  She glanced up at Charlie then down to the floor again.

  ‘I knew at once.’ She was twisting the blade now. ‘It was the soul of my father.’ Her dark eyes were on Charlie’s now. ‘City people don’t believe such things,’ she said. ‘But when a gypsy dies wrongly, they do not go to a better place. They stay in the mortal world, until they’re avenged.’

  Lily looked back at the knife.

  ‘My father taught me everything,’ she said. ‘He made sure I would never be defenceless. I will not let his soul wander the earth.’

  They sat in silence, contemplating Guildhall crypt.

  ‘We are alike in something then,’ said Charlie thoughtfully. ‘Blackstone took away my place in the world too. I might have family.’

  ‘You think you might have lands due? Titles?’

  Charlie shook his head.

  ‘I’m not concerned for that. I live well enough. But sometimes I feel like . . . I don’t know who I am,’ he said. It was the first time he’d said it out loud, and the words felt strange. ‘I should like to know,’ he concluded.

  ‘You think knowing your family would tell you who you are?’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  Charlie surveyed the crypt again, trying to make order from the chaos.

  ‘We should try and find Blackstone’s chest,’ Lily said. She took the tankard from him and drained it.

  Charlie stood. He closed his eyes. There was an order. He was sure of it. His gaze settled on the nearest pile of goods in the crypt. Among the medley of general possessions was a disproportionate quantity of leather.

  ‘Skinners,’ he decided, looking to the next pile. ‘Next to the vintners.’

  Something was tugging at his thief taker’s instinct. Here was London’s true heart, laid out in this crypt. Wealth. Commodities. Each guild had a separate huge jumbling pile. What distinguished where each stored their things?

  Then the pattern settled into place. It was so simple. Charlie found himself smiling. He didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before.