by C. S. Quinn
Amesbury nodded. ‘Sir Roger Pratt drew up plans for a very high spire.’
‘There was another architect, was there not?’ The King was remembering.
‘Christopher Wren,’ said Amesbury. ‘It was decided he hasn’t the experience for such a project.’
‘Bring me his plans again,’ said Charles. ‘He suggested a domed cupola I think, which I remember liking. Time for something new, perhaps.’
He thought for a moment. ‘The London Stone is now broken in two you say?’
‘Split in half,’ agreed Amesbury.
‘Then we will have Mr Wren set a piece of it at the altar in our glorious new St Paul’s,’ he decided. ‘The other can be set in its original place on Cannon Street. That will afford our great capital dual protection I should think. From the Roman Gods and the Christian angels besides. I’ll wager Londoners will be swearing on the stone in five hundred years’ time.’
Amesbury nodded. The King certainly had style. But he had no understanding of finances. London was bankrupt.
‘But first we must go to Hatton Gardens,’ muttered the King, ‘where the refugees gather. We should attend to the poor as well as the rich.’
Chapter 147
The first paper, Charlie had seen before. A Fleet wedding certificate signed by Thomas and Teresa Blackstone. He made out the word ‘witnesses’ above their names. Then further up the firm signature of Charles Stuart. And a looping ‘Lucy Walter’, written smaller beneath it.
Even though he had known what the papers held, Charlie found his hands shaking.
‘This could bring down the Crown,’ he said.
Lily nodded. ‘It could start a foreign war,’ she said. ‘King Charles was given Bombay and Tangier for his Portuguese wife. Portugal should not like to know her marriage is not legal.’
‘Or another civil war,’ said Charlie. ‘Monmouth is Protestant. People may prefer him to the Duke of York, with his Catholic wife and children.’
He unrolled the other paper. It was written in Dutch with a Dutch seal and he frowned as he made out the names. It was addressed to Sally and signed Tobias.
‘I can’t read it,’ said Lily. Her eyes were on Charlie.
He tried to see what was written, but his eyes were swimming. Peering hard he made out a few words. ‘Miss you’ and ‘home’.
Charlie rolled up the papers.
‘Do you think he is there still?’ asked Lily. ‘In Holland?’
‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘I think he died at sea.’
As soon as Charlie said the words he was certain of them. He folded the letter carefully and slid it inside his coat.
‘It is enough,’ he said, ‘to know it.’
‘What of your father’s lands?’ asked Lily.
‘Maybe Blackstone told the truth, maybe he didn’t,’ said Charlie. ‘But no land in England truly belongs to a man. Civil War taught us that. Besides,’ he added with a grin, ‘I grew up in London. I’ve no business in the country.’
Lily smiled. ‘There’s not much of London left,’ she pointed out.
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Charlie, ‘how little of London is out there,’ he pointed, ‘and how much is in here,’ he said, tapping his chest. ‘So long as people are here to remember how things were, they’ll rebuild. More quickly than you might think. If there’s money to be made, there’s no stopping them.’
Charlie’s eyes swept the smouldering remains of St Paul’s graveyard. He took a few steps and dropped the certificate into a patch that still flamed.
Lily moved towards him. For a moment Charlie thought she meant to retrieve the papers. Instead she took out the mermaid handkerchief and dropped it into the flames.
They watched as paper and cloth smoked and then flared.
‘Do you trust me now?’ asked Lily, as black ash swallowed up the King’s signature.
‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘A little,’ he qualified. ‘Why did you give me the papers? You could have destroyed them.’
‘Maybe I’ve grown fond of you.’
Charlie considered her expression.
‘I was wrong about you,’ he decided. ‘You do have a tell.’
‘I do?’
‘It just says something different to what I thought.’
Lily tried for a casual tone as he moved closer. ‘What do you think it says?’
‘I cannot easily put it into words.’
‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed.
‘I can show you,’ said Charlie. And he kissed her.
Three days after the Great Fire
Lucy Walter knocked tentatively on King Charles’s bedchamber. She adjusted her low-cut pink dress and repositioned a horsehair curl.
‘Come in!’ called the King.
Lucy entered to find the King standing with his brother James, Amesbury and a short man with a tall wig she didn’t recognise.
Lucy curtseyed low. ‘Less security outside your rooms of late,’ she observed.
‘Charles is currently the most popular King in Europe,’ said James.
‘And there are no plotters left in any case,’ added Amesbury. ‘Discontented men tend to be poor. And they suffered worse from the fire. Most are still camping out in Hatton Gardens.’
‘I’ve sent orders to the surrounding towns and cities to receive refugees,’ said Charles distractedly. He was looking at a large map.
‘This is Christopher Wren,’ he said as an afterthought, gesturing the introduction. ‘These are his plans for the new city.’
‘The streets make the Kaballah Tree of Life,’ said Wren, mistaking Lucy for someone of importance. ‘St Paul’s Cathedral is the heart of it. And see here how it spans out.’
Lucy glanced at it, then back at Charles.
‘Barbara was very kind,’ said Lucy haltingly. ‘She gave me a carriage and cart. I owe her everything I own,’ she added, sounding as though the confession pained her.
Charles looked up at her. ‘Barbara can be very kind,’ he said. ‘Just not often to me.’ And he gave Lucy the dazzling smile that had first made her fall in love with him. ‘She’s out arranging charitable donations,’ added Charles. ‘Making sure the homeless have food and shelter. Better you’re gone before she gets back,’ he added. ‘Giving away money puts her in a foul temper.’
‘You’re very popular in the city,’ said Lucy. ‘People say you single-handedly held up the blazing wall of St Dunstan in the West. That’s not my story,’ she added, catching his expression. ‘The people say it.’
‘I’ll pass your thanks to Barbara,’ murmured Charles, making clear she was dismissed.
‘There was something else,’ blurted Lucy. ‘Some small thing,’ she added as they all turned to stare. ‘There was talk, of the Sealed Knot having some papers,’ she said, looking directly at Charles. ‘Some alchemy things. Lead into gold, nonsense like that.’ She gave an embarrassed cough.
‘Oh?’ Charles was looking at her with a warning expression.
‘I didn’t take as good care of them as I should have,’ admitted Lucy, ‘in Holland.’
Charles’s eyes widened.
‘But Amesbury tells me they burned,’ she concluded. ‘And if they hadn’t, if they ever showed up, I would burn them myself. Worthless things that they were.’
Charles nodded slowly to show he understood, whilst James and Wren looked confused. Amesbury frowned for a moment and then smiled as though working something through.
They all looked back to the London plans as Lucy exited.
‘I like them very much,’ said Charles. ‘The streets laid out like this. You say it’s a kind of journey? With enlightenment at the end?’
Wren nodded. ‘It’s something the stonemasons advocate. Or freemasons I should say,’ he corrected himself. ‘They make a great study of symbolism and mystic ideas. I think it makes them better at their craft.’
‘This fine domed roof,’ said Charles. ‘I always liked it. But it wasn’t possible to get it through Parliament. I think I’ve bought myself e
nough grace to insist upon it now, don’t you think?’
‘It will be the pride of London,’ said Wren happily. ‘Hundreds of years from now, people will gaze up at St Paul’s and think Charles II made a modern wonder for London.’
Amesbury tapped the London sketches.
‘Perhaps we should be cautious about making these mystic freemason things. Feelings about religion run high after the fire. People blame Catholics.’
‘The Freemasons were accepted by Oliver Cromwell,’ said the King. ‘I will be no less tolerant. And besides, Amesbury, the Freemasons might have some strange ideas of how the world came into being, but they make some fine buildings with their notions of symbolism and such.’
Charles considered for a moment.
‘There should be a monument,’ he decided. ‘Near to Pudding Lane. Something which offers thanks to the heavens. Wren, you must speak with the Royal Alchemist. He can advise you on astrology and so forth.’
‘The Royal Alchemist?’
‘Isaac Newton,’ said the King. ‘He makes some alchemy for me in secret,’ he added, catching Wren’s face. ‘As well as helping us catch coin counterfeiters.’
‘I’ll arrange to meet with him,’ said Wren. ‘What should you like this monument to be called?’
Charles frowned. ‘I’m sure I shall think of something,’ he said. ‘But for now, we’ll just call it “The Monument”.’
Seven days after the Great Fire
Charlie surveyed the hoards of sailors crammed in the Bucket of Blood.
The King had called back almost all his navy to help rebuild the city. And with their usual brothels and taverns burned, Covent Garden was stuffed to the rafters with sailors.
Among the jolly tars Charlie noticed a familiar face. Bitey was throwing back a leather tankard of beer, wiping his filthy beard. As Charlie moved closer, a muscular weight slammed against his knees. He lurched, then righted himself on a nearby table.
Bitey looked up, grinning. His pig, Juniper, began chomping on Charlie’s breeches.
‘You survived the fire then?’ said Charlie, pushing her large head away with difficulty. ‘And found your pig?’
‘Survived and flourished,’ said Bitey proudly. ‘My room in Covent Garden is worth its weight in gold. I have three refugees paying me rent whilst they rebuild.’
Bitey nodded to a gaming table where coins and cards flew.
‘I’m not the only one doing well,’ he added. ‘That widow has made a small fortune from those sailors. Poor lads never saw a Covent Garden hustle before.’
Charlie glanced over. The female card player was dressed in plain black, a modest white cap hiding part of her face. Charlie thought there was something familiar about the curve of her mouth. Then he grinned.
‘Beware of the widow,’ said Charlie, as he approached the table, ‘she’s more practised at cards than she looks.’
From the far end of the table Lily recognised Charlie and beamed. The sailors she’d been card sharping glared at her, realising the pay they’d just lost was no accident.
‘What brings you to the Bucket of Blood?’ asked Charlie.
‘You.’ She gave him a disarming smile. ‘And boatloads of landed sailors,’ she added.
Lily stood. Seeing she was hemmed in by people, she climbed up on the table. The sailors dived for their cards and money as her black skirts swept across. Charlie put up his hands and lifted her down.
‘I thought you might have gone back to the country,’ he said, keeping her close. ‘City in ruins and all that.’
‘No,’ said Lily, stepping back a little. She was still holding her winning hand of cards and she tapped them on his chest. ‘Once you’ve been in London a time, it gets under your skin. And this part didn’t burn.’ She gestured to the dark walls of the Bucket, lined with its usual malodorous clientele. ‘Still enough of the city left to make a living.’
‘Why did you leave?’ asked Charlie, remembering the last time he’d seen her. They’d spent a few happy days together in Covent Garden. Then Lily had vanished without explanation. He’d assumed she was on some urgent spying mission for Amesbury.
‘Important business,’ she shrugged enigmatically, her dark eyes on his.
Charlie raised his eyebrows.
‘Amesbury wanted to know about Blackstone,’ she admitted. ‘I told him what I knew.’
‘Which was?’
‘Blackstone was one of the old plotters,’ she said. ‘But now fire has burned away that festering part. The King wants to rebuild a clean new city,’ she added. ‘That’s the talk in court.’
‘He’s too late,’ smiled Charlie. ‘Londoners are already putting their city back together, more or less the same way as they left it.’ He smiled at the thought of the narrow alleys and haphazard roads being stoically reassembled. No notion of city planning would deter a Londoner from the serious business of making money.
‘There was one more reason I came back,’ said Lily.
‘Oh?’
‘The paper,’ she said, ‘from your dead father.’
‘What about it?’ Charlie could feel Tobias Oakley’s letter lodged deep in his leather coat.
‘Did you manage to read it yet?’ She was turning the playing cards in her hand.
He grinned. After all this time she was suddenly so easy to read.
Lily caught his expression and put the hand of cards on the table behind her.
‘I have a job for you,’ she said, ‘involving treasure. Buried treasure.’
‘There’s no such thing,’ said Charlie evenly.
‘I’m not hiring you for your opinion. But I might offer you one quarter of the findings.’ Her dark eyes flashed excitedly.
‘You don’t find a good thief taker,’ said Charlie, ‘he finds you. What makes you think I’m interested in your assignation?’
She slipped off the ruby ring she’d pickpocketed from the aristocrat in Fetter Lane.
‘Remember this?’
‘Of course I do,’ grinned Charlie. ‘You stole it the first time I saw you. Then you burned a house down. That kind of thing stays in the memory.’
‘You knew,’ said Lily slowly. ‘You knew from the first, what this ring was.’
‘Maybe,’ admitted Charlie. ‘I had my suspicions. But I was preoccupied with other things. You know,’ he added, ‘I’m employed to take the ring back.’
‘So take it.’ She handed it over, keeping her eyes on his.
Charlie took the ring slowly, not breaking the gaze. His heart was pounding as he glanced down at the ruby.
‘Worthless,’ he said, handing it back.
Lily was smiling.
‘So you’ll help me?’ she said, turning it carefully in her palm. ‘Another adventure?’ She raised the ring. Sunlight sparkled in the red depths. ‘I know you know what this ring is,’ she added.
‘Do I?’ His hands were on her waist. ‘Maybe I’ll take some convincing.’
‘I would warn you it could be dangerous work,’ said Lily.
‘I wouldn’t expect anything less,’ he replied.
‘Then shall we go, Charlie Tuesday, and make our fortunes?’
Lily slipped the ring on her finger, then put her little hand in his. And together they walked out into the din of Covent Garden, back towards the smouldering remains of their city.
Truth is stranger than fiction. Which of these events really happened?
One of the following facts is false. Do you know which? Go to www.thethieftaker.com/firecatcher. Guess correctly to unlock a free secret history of Fire Catcher.
The Great Fire caused a weather phenomenon known as a firestorm. This threw out walls of heat, drew in high winds and struck down lightning, firing up more buildings.
Barbara Castlemaine turned her seductions to the fifteen-year-old Monmouth.
A Shadow Market of illegal goods operated under London’s South Bank.
The roof of St Paul’s Cathedral melted during the Great Fire, flowing rivers of molten lead down Lu
d Gate Hill.
King Charles II’s quick-thinking use of gunpowder during the fire saved the Tower, and most likely England.
About the Author
Photo © Richard Bolls
C.S. Quinn is the bestselling author of The Thief Taker. Prior to writing fiction she was a travel and lifestyle journalist for The Times, the Guardian and the Mirror, alongside many magazines. In her early academic career, Quinn’s background in historic research won prestigious postgraduate funding from the British Arts Council. Quinn pooled these resources, combining historical research with first-hand experiences in far-flung places to create Charlie Tuesday’s London.
