by C. S. Quinn
Charlie’s eyes travelled down half a wall. Up ahead was the remains of a staircase, burned to cinders and fallen to one side.
Charlie looked up and then down again.
‘There,’ he said, pointing. ‘That was the room.’ Something cold and hard had settled in his stomach. ‘The floor burned through,’ he added. ‘So whatever was inside fell here.’
They both looked to the layer of charred timbers and soot.
‘The house had been cleared already,’ said Charlie. ‘The chest was banded in metal. Some of that would remain.’
Half-heartedly they searched the rubble. Then Charlie used the ruined stair to raise his head to the second storey. It was burned out and empty.
‘The chest isn’t here,’ said Charlie.
‘Look at this,’ said Lily. She was looking at one of the scorched walls. ‘Something here didn’t burn completely. A painting or an etching.’ Lily turned her head, trying to get a better look. Then she reached up and unhooked a blackened picture frame. It fell to pieces in her hands.
‘What is it?’ asked Charlie. He knelt. ‘A family tree?’
The remnants bore miniature portraits with names underneath. Leaves and branches connected them into a large tree.
‘That’s what it looks like,’ said Lily. ‘It’s hard to tell with the scorching. But it’s very beautifully done,’ she added, looking at the detailing in the leaves and branches twisting around the faces. ‘They must have been an important family. Before the war.’
Charlie picked up the pieces carefully. There were five little pieces of paper in all. He tried to fit them together.
‘Do you remember it?’ asked Lily.
‘No.’ Charlie’s lips were moving.
‘Lady Harriet Blackstone,’ said Lily helpfully. ‘There’s a Lord here.’ She looked at the little faces. ‘By the dates I’d guess they’re Blackstone’s parents,’ she said. ‘They look stern don’t they?’ She tapped the numbers. ‘Both died at the beginning of the Civil War,’ she added.
‘I don’t see Blackstone,’ said Charlie, examining the faces.
‘He’s not here,’ said Lily. ‘I don’t see his name. Or Teresa’s.’
‘There’s no one from his wife’s family,’ said Charlie. ‘Every name here is Blackstone.’ He looked up at Lily. ‘A coincidence don’t you think? Only Blackstone’s family members survived the fire?’
Lily was nodding. ‘Blackstone removed his wife’s family,’ she said slowly. ‘And left this half to burn.’ She picked up another piece.
‘This face has been scrubbed out,’ she said, holding it up.
Charlie felt a flash of fear in his gut.
He took the scrap of portrait.
‘I remember it,’ he said, looking at Lily. ‘This is . . . This was Blackstone’s sister. I . . .’ Charlie closed his eyes. He had a sudden powerful image.
Teresa Blackstone, her face twisted in hatred. She was casting a spell, working soot over the little portrait. Her finger twisted over and over until all the face had been rubbed away.
‘Teresa scrubbed this face out,’ he said.
Lily looked at the ruined picture.
‘She must have hated Blackstone’s sister,’ she said. ‘To do so much damage. Do you really think she killed her?’
‘Teresa said she did,’ said Charlie. ‘But I don’t know. Blackstone . . . He loved his sister, I think. He kept her dresses and a rosary for her. And he was angry with Teresa for destroying his sister’s picture. My mother told us Blackstone’s sister was killed in the war and we should never speak of her.’
They looked at one another.
‘The wife hated the sister,’ said Lily. ‘Why?’
Charlie shook his head.
‘The other half of this family tree would tell us,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of it.’
Charlie’s finger traced back up through Blackstone’s family, looking for more clues. There was something odd about this family. He wasn’t sure what.
His fingertips touched the family crest, drawn starkly at the top of the tree.
‘This crest.’ His hand rested on it. ‘I’ve seen it. There’s a private chapel. In St Paul’s Cathedral.’
‘Must have been an important family,’ said Lily. ‘Once upon a time. To have a chapel in London’s cathedral.’
‘We need to find Blackstone,’ decided Charlie, moving to stand. ‘If the chest is unburned somewhere it will be with him.’
‘The family tree tells us nothing of his plans,’ said Lily.
‘Perhaps not,’ Charlie conceded. Although something whispered at the edge of his mind, that maybe there was a clue there.
‘Blackstone is a strategist,’ said Charlie. ‘Everything he does is planned.’
He mapped the guilds in his head and a realisation struck.
‘The last guild to fire was the Coopers’ Hall,’ he said. ‘We saw it as we came over St Andrew’s Hill. So there’s only one guild left.’
Charlie was mapping through the city.
‘He’s fired all but the Carpenters near Tower Hill,’ he said. ‘Why leave that one unburned?’
‘It’s nowhere near Whitehall,’ supplied Lily. ‘It’s of no use to him.’
‘No.’ Charlie was shaking his head. ‘Blackstone is a general. He understands tactics. If he’d wanted to burn Whitehall, he’d have fired the Carpenters’ Guild first. To draw troops east.’
‘So he doesn’t mean to fire Whitehall?’
Charlie shook his head. Things were fitting into place.
‘He uses it as a pawn. Blackstone knows the King will rush to defend the Palace in the west. But he leaves the east undefended. The Tower.’
Lily’s mouth dropped open. ‘England’s munitions base,’ she said.
‘The Carpenters’ Guild is near the Tower,’ said Charlie. He was picturing the chaos of flames, rubble and escaping Londoners and his heart sank. It would take them hours.
‘We won’t get there in time,’ said Lily.
‘Maybe we can,’ said Charlie. ‘Generals plan from afar. I don’t think Blackstone would risk firing it himself. He’ll signal with his blue fire.’
Charlie chewed a nail thoughtfully.
‘If we intercept a signal we can break the chain. The Carpenters’ Guild won’t burn. It might be enough to save the Tower.’
‘But we don’t know where Blackstone will signal from,’ Lily pointed out. ‘It might be further from where we are than the Carpenters’ Guild.’
Charlie sighed impatiently. ‘Where . . . ? Where would you be sure would not fire?’
‘Whitehall?’ suggested Lily. ‘If his plan is to use the Palace as a feint then he knows it will be safe.’
‘Whitehall is too far west,’ said Charlie. ‘He could not be sure his flame would be seen. Even if he gets up high.’
He frowned in thought.
‘Somewhere high,’ he muttered. ‘Somewhere safe.’ But the only safe places he could think of were low down. Underground. Cellars. And then it hit him.
Charlie closed his eyes. ‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it was only a nightmare. But I think Blackstone had a cellar.’
Chapter 121
‘Everything has been cleared,’ said Charlie, standing and assessing the charred layout of Blackstone’s home. ‘Apart from half a painting. What if Blackstone couldn’t get a cart? Maybe he stored his wife’s things in the cellar.’
‘It’s what most people do during fire,’ said Lily. ‘But I don’t see a cellar here.’ She was looking to the solid floor. ‘Planks on earth,’ she said.
‘The cellar was . . .’ Charlie closed his eyes, remembering. A thick feeling of unease came over him. ‘It wasn’t like an ordinary cellar,’ he said. ‘More like a cave.’
‘You’re sure you’re remembering right?’ said Lily, sounding disbelieving.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But the entrance was in the kitchen.’ He moved to the back of the building. ‘Here.’
Charlie was moving
towards where he thought the kitchen would have been. Hot ash and soot covered the ground. He kicked aside a chunk of burned rafter and it disintegrated into live sparks. ‘It was here,’ he said. ‘A great door leading down.’
‘Be careful,’ murmured Lily. ‘The floor could collapse.’
But Charlie was shaking his head. ‘It isn’t here,’ he said, torn between disappointment and relief. ‘No doorway. I suppose it must have been a dream after all.’ It was a strange thought. The images were so clear. He stood for a moment, uncertain of what to do next.
Lily considered the rubble. Then she moved to stand beside him. To his surprise she dropped to her hands and knees.
‘Things are often smaller than you remember as a child,’ she said, dusting aside the soot. ‘Perhaps it’s not as large an opening as you think.’
Her fingers slid into the gaps of the charred floorboards. Then she stood up and stamped her foot. A perfect square of ash vanished into the ground.
‘There,’ she said proudly. ‘Cellar door.’
Charlie looked down. A bolt of dread hit his stomach.
‘It is small,’ said Charlie uncertainly. He dropped to his knees, feeling for the ring to open it with his hands. His fingers closed instead on a burned nub of rope.
‘I remember,’ he said, dread building. ‘It had a rope handle.’ He took out his eating knife and levered open the edge of the door. It stuck and then opened jerkily, hinges shrieking. A cloud of ash tumbled down, obscuring the bottom completely. They waited for it to clear. Charlie felt his stomach tighten. Images of Teresa Blackstone’s dead things were rising up. Something about this cellar was the stuff of his nightmares. And he couldn’t shake the feeling there was something down here. Something evil.
There was a swinging rope ladder and Charlie climbed on to it, trying to dismiss the foreboding curling around him.
The smoke made it hard to see. But he could make out damp stone walls which seemed to lead on forever.
‘Lily,’ he called up, ‘pass me your tinderbox.’ He felt the cool metal touch his hand and he took it. Fumbling, he tried to spark the tinderbox whilst keeping a hand on the ladder. The first drive of the flint across the fire-steel sent out a shower of sparks.
Charlie glimpsed a Royalist coat of arms and then all faded to black. He froze. There was something down here with him. In the darkness he felt every other sense heighten.
At the edges of his hearing Charlie could make out a ragged animal kind of breathing. With shaking hands he made another try on the tinderbox. The flint struck, flared but the tinder failed to light. Suddenly something jolted hard into the ladder.
Charlie grappled to right himself. The momentum of the attack sent him swinging wide with the hand holding the tinderbox waving desperately in the black. Another jerk broke his grip. He felt himself fall into the dark.
Chapter 122
Blackstone was looking up at the beautiful stained glass.
‘It seems a pity,’ he murmured, ‘that this must burn. It was once a magnificent place for Catholic worship,’ he added. ‘Imagine how it must have looked, with the incense swinging and the Latin words. Even a Protestant must have found himself moved by such beauty.’
His eyes lighted on The Thing.
‘But my wife must have her sacrifice,’ he said.
Jacob was looking at the gunpowder.
‘Drape the cloth there.’ Blackstone was pointing. ‘I’ll bring her across.’
‘In the enclave?’
Blackstone nodded. ‘There is a protected space for me here. No one else might use this part.’ He gave another thin smile. ‘An advantage of my fine family name.’
With a sinking heart Jacob stepped away from the candelabra. That had been his weapon of choice. He draped the cloth, keeping one eye over his shoulder.
Blackstone’s eyes were lighted tenderly on The Thing. Jacob’s gaze roamed desperately around the small chamber. There was nothing to fling or break at hand. His only choice was to run. But Blackstone’s huge form was blocking the route out.
Reverently, Blackstone stooped and picked up The Thing. And as he did, Jacob raced away. He knocked against Blackstone’s solid body. Blackstone’s hand shot out low. He held a needle blade which Jacob hadn’t seen. The knife tore through Jacob’s calf, slashing muscles away from bone.
Jacob let out a cry of pain and staggered. He took another few steps. Blood poured from his leg. Blackstone was moving away from him, carrying The Thing to her resting place.
Jacob’s gaze locked on the far wall where the door was. It seemed a long way. Past piles of possessions. His leg felt cold now. He hobbled. The pain made him spin left. Gritting his teeth he righted himself, extending an arm for balance.
He risked a glance behind him. Blackstone was laying The Thing gently down. Jacob felt a surge of hope. He swallowed, grunted in pain and began hobbling.
The stacks of goods were forming something of a maze and Jacob found himself confronted with two routes. One was stacked either side with chairs and looked dark. The other was dappled in light. Sweating with pain, Jacob took the light way.
He’d dropped to all fours by the time he realised it was a dead end. The possessions had led him into a closed room. A large vestry.
His jaw twitched in fear. He couldn’t escape the feeling that Blackstone had planned this. Planned for him to enter this closed away place. But how could he have known which route he’d take?
Jacob felt a chill all over now. The energy to move at all was flagging. In the beginning blood had poured hot over his foot. But now his toes were wet and cold.
Even before Blackstone arrived behind him, Jacob knew he was going to die. He turned to face his killer, his lips white.
Blackstone was holding the needle blade.
‘A useful tool,’ he said. ‘But more useful still is your fear.’ His icy eyes glittered. ‘You think you can escape me, boy? I know your every move. Even before you do.’
Jacob shook his head.
‘You should have taken the left path,’ said Blackstone. ‘That would have led you outside. You might have even lived.’ Blackstone indicated to Jacob’s injured leg. ‘But I knew you wouldn’t. Pain, you see. A little pain is all it takes to disturb the thoughts.’
He moved in close to Jacob and lowered his voice to a whisper.
‘You ran right, to the vestry,’ he said. ‘Because your left leg hurt you.’
‘How could you know . . . ?’
‘Experience,’ said Blackstone. ‘I learned the hard way, to keep my head. And I always know, where fear will drive a man.’
Chapter 123
Charlie fell hard on the damp floor of the cellar. The landing knocked all the breath out of him and he scrabbled up on to all fours, trying to sense where the attacker might be.
There was a familiar rank smell. Blackstone had been hoarding food down here. Charlie had forgotten this was one of his traits.
‘Charlie!’ He could hear Lily making her way down the ladder.
‘Stay away!’ he shouted. A heavy shape careered into him. Charlie ducked low and rolled. He hit damp brick wall and his injured shoulder jarred in pain.
Breathing heavily he grasped the tinderbox with both hands and struck at the fire-steel. A larger shower of sparks flew, illuminating a set of yellow teeth inches from his face. A black tongue snaked out and licked the lips. Then the flint died without lighting the tinder.
Charlie scrabbled as fast as he could backwards. His spine cracked into a cold stone wall and he realised he was no longer holding the flint. He must have dropped it somewhere towards the middle of the pit.
‘Charlie?’ Lily was down in the cellar now. Charlie’s stomach tightened. He heard the creature head for Lily in the dark.
A single thought held. Get the flint back. He needed to see what they were fighting. Creeping on his hands and knees Charlie swept an exploratory hand out in front of him. The darkness was so absolute it had a texture all of its own. Nothing was visible, not even hi
s own pale hands questing the floor.
In the black he heard Lily scream.
Charlie inched across the floor, trying to keep the deafening sound of his movements to a minimum.
The attack came from nowhere and he felt the blow of the creature strike. He twisted, trying to throw it off. And as he did so he felt the sharp shape of the flint press into his palm.
He struck at the tinderbox and this time the tinder caught. A high flame illuminated the entire confines of the dingy cellar, blinding him.
As he blinked away the dancing shapes before his eyes he heard a gasp – a more human sound than the previous brutish noises. Then his eyes dropped to the ground to see a man crouched on the floor. He was deathly pale and panting in agony. But the pain and fear in his expression receded as his eyes met Charlie’s.
‘By all that is Holy,’ said the man, as the flare of the tinderbox faded and died. ‘Tobias Oakley’s son lived.’
Chapter 124
The Duke of York stood with his naval commander at his side. Both looked stern-faced into the impending flames. All around men were heaping earth and mud on dismembered buildings.
The sun was setting. They could see a blood-red sliver at the base of the black clouds. Night was coming.
‘It is a war,’ said James, looking to Lud Gate Hill. ‘And here comes the first wave.’
He adjusted his grip on the shovel. Behind them troops were frantically pulling houses.
The naval commander was looking uncertainly towards the Post Office.
‘You’re sure Monmouth held back the flames?’ he said. ‘It seems fire is high that way.’
James nodded. ‘Monmouth wrote personally,’ he said. ‘To tell me he holds it. So we defend the east.’
He caught the commander’s expression.
‘The Fleet now flows,’ said James. ‘So we know Monmouth tells us true. He cleared the blockage and holds the Post Office.’
There was a flash of gold in the distance, and their hearts lifted. The famous Clerkenwell fire engine being dragged steadily towards them.
