‘Very well, Mr Price,’ I consented. ‘Tell me what to do.’ I sat back and readied to watch him.
He nodded happily, opened his tome to a fresh page and stabbed his quill into an inkpot. ‘So will I draw the twelve houses of Heaven.’ With great diligence he scratched out a sequence of cross-hatched boxes. ‘Now will I write in the day of the year and the time.’ Which he proceeded to do with utmost care. ‘Now we can assess your fate through the asking of several questions.’ He sat back. ‘First, I might ask if you are likely to live long, which is a question of the first house. Or I might ask if you shall have children, a question of the fifth house. The sixth house might tell us of disease, though it would be better if you had the disease first.’ His smile faded. ‘The eighth house shall tell me of your death, the ninth house the wisdom of a long journey, the tenth house whether or not you shall acquire high office and the eleventh house if you shall have the thing you wish for.’
I immediately thought of Liz Willis. I unfolded my arms and leant forwards. ‘All sound interesting to my ears.’
He seemed pleased, and set to penning cramped little symbols all upon the lines, representing the different planets in whatever trajectories they might be today. I recognised the three sticks of Scorpio and the small head and long horns of Taurus. He incised his etchings with great seriousness, tongue stuck between his teeth so hard I feared he might bite off its tip.
I waited in stifling sufferance for longer than I thought possible before he smiled wistfully and coughed into his hand.
‘Not good news?’ I ventured.
‘You are certain you have not asked these questions before?’ he asked, brows arched hopefully.
I shook my head.
‘Oh dear.’ He returned to his book. ‘I have rarely seen such a dismal prognosis.’ He grimaced. ‘The Lord of the Ascendant be under the influence of the Sun, which indicates combustion. Also it is unfortunated by the planet that has dominion in the eighth house.’
‘What does that signify?’ I asked, dry-mouthed.
Price put his hands together and squirmed apologetically. ‘That the sickness you are soon to be troubled with shall end your life.’
I felt a sharp pain in my belly. ‘Plague, then.’
‘The ascendant in the fifth house is Scorpio, which indicates ye shall remain barren.’ His brows beetled together to form one thick black line. ‘You don’t have children now?’
‘No,’ I confirmed, busy reassuring myself that my belief in astrology was no greater than my belief in God.
‘Have ye taken your urine to be inspected by a physician?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I replied again. ‘I am not sick.’ Not that I knew of. Some men died sudden of the plague though. Like Hedges, one sneeze was all that signalled it.
‘Aye, well, if you do contract the plague then rest assured ye will know of it.’ Price pointed at the ink upon the page. ‘The Lord of the sixth house is an earthly sign, which signifies a long painful fever.’
‘Do you have no good news at all?’ I demanded, angry.
‘No.’ Price shook his head regretfully. ‘Your significators are extremely afflicted and the Lord of the first house be in conjunction with the Lord of the eighth house.’ He leant back on his chair and adjusted the heavy hat. ‘Methinks I have said enough, Mr Lytle.’
‘I think so too,’ I agreed, ‘but I don’t see how this will help me decide whether to leave London or not. You are telling me I am bound to die of the plague whatever path I choose.’
‘That is so.’ Price lay his hands upon his belly. ‘Though it saddens me to say it.’
‘Jane will not be happy with you,’ I warned. ‘She was hoping you would advise me to leave London forthwith.’
His half-closed eyes opened wider and his mouth dropped an inch. He no longer looked smug. ‘So she was.’
‘Aye, and she is the one paying you.’ I smiled.
Price stared. ‘She is the querent then?’
‘What does that signify?’
‘It is complicated.’ At last he removed the furry hat, revealing a thick mat of black hair, lain wet across his pate. ‘I didn’t know she was the querent.’
‘Does that change the movement of the stars?’
‘No indeed.’ He wiped his wet palms upon his trousers. ‘But now I am not sure if it is your reading I have prepared, or else that of your maidservant.’ He bit his lip. ‘I will have to take advice.’
A small knot of vengeful satisfaction quivered in the base of my stomach. It laughed. ‘Methinks the best advice is not to tell Jane what ye have just told me.’
Price’s eyes lit up. ‘Perhaps if I were to prepare another reading for you and you were to pay me for it, then it would become clear.’
‘I thank you for the offer, Mr Price.’ I sat up straight and stretched. ‘But I have digested sufficient of your words of wisdom this fine day. Though I will happily sit here while you prepare a reading for yourself. What befalls the man that disappoints a fiery woman.’
The door opened and Jane stood simmering in the doorway. ‘What news?’ she demanded of the astrologer.
Price fiddled with his pointy stick and replaced the dripping hat upon his round head. ‘I was just informing Mr Lytle of the outcome,’ he flustered. ‘So, Mr Lytle.’ His eyes begged for mercy. ‘The separation of the Moon from the square of Saturn tells me you have strong conflicts as to what path you might choose to take.’
What was he up to? I decided to humour him. ‘And what state is the Moon in?’
‘Not good.’ He shook his head grimly. ‘It is wandering.’
‘You imply it usually stands still?’
He sighed sharply. ‘The wandering Moon indicates a path that leads nowhere in particular.’
‘Which describes his life most eloquently,’ Jane interrupted.
Enough. ‘This is not what you told me before, Mr Price.’
Price lifted his brows. ‘What did I tell you before, Mr Lytle? Perhaps you didn’t understand.’ He waited for me to say more, like a man who thinks he has won an important wager. He knew I would not tell Jane that either of us was predicted to die soon. Jane stared at me like she contemplated biting off my head.
‘A lack of purpose, however, is not the only possible interpretation.’ Price bowed his head as if in prayer. ‘Your future is unclear. The question to ask yourself is which path leads to greatest certainty.’
He seemed to have finished.
Jane blinked and stared at him. ‘You would be paid for such advice?’
‘I am not finished,’ he startled. ‘Mercury is the Lord of the ascendant and Saturn is in conjunction with Taurus, and since Saturn is also the Lord of the sixth house then this tells us the evil influence is strong, and it is time for you to be attentive of what is going on around you, rather than within you. This is sound advice which, if you follow it, will guide you well.’ He nodded slowly and returned Jane’s gaze. ‘And hear this.’ He straightened. ‘You are faced with a big decision.’
Jane started to growl, a discomfiting sound to those who had not heard it before. I began to enjoy the performance. ‘Mars is conjunct with the cusp of the seventh, as is Gemini,’ he said.
‘What does that signify?’ I encouraged him.
He leant closer, crimson skull smelling of grease and sweat. ‘When the choice comes, you must take the road leading north.’
‘I took the road leading north yesterday,’ I told him. ‘No doubt I will have to do it again soon.’
‘That is not what he means,’ Jane hissed.
The door flew open and Dowling appeared, tired and grumpy.
‘All well?’ I asked.
‘As well as it will be,’ he groused. He regarded Owen Price’s short, round form huddled beneath his great, furry coat. ‘Are you not hot, sir?’ he asked.
‘He is an astrologer,’ I explained.
‘Aye then.’ Dowling tore his gaze from Price. ‘How fare thee, Jane?’
‘What are you doing here?’ she
replied. She treated Dowling better than she treated me, as she did anyone who went to church on a regular basis.
Dowling eased his gargantuan frame onto one of my old chairs. ‘I have come to plan what your master and I shall do next. We have some choices to make.’
‘Choices?’ Price repeated, eagerly, casting upon me a meaningful gaze.
‘Aye,’ Dowling growled. ‘Choices.’
Price raised an eyebrow and tapped his nose while Dowling stared at him as though he contemplated kicking him out the front window.
‘When the choice comes, you must take the road north,’ Price declared, waving a finger in the air.
‘Astrologer.’ Dowling leant over and slammed his book closed. ‘We are at Bread Street. When I leave here I will go to my house at Newgate, which is north. Will that satisfy you?’
Jane did not protect the astrologer this time. She tossed her head and clicked her tongue, furious at his limp showing.
Price coughed and sought to hide his face, then concentrated on gathering his tools back into his brown bag. ‘I will send you my bill,’ he said, avoiding Jane’s eye. He picked up the bag and hurried out the door.
The butcher watched him depart with great curiosity. ‘I think that man took a bath this morning and got dressed before drying himself.’
‘I told you,’ I reminded him. ‘He is an astrologer.’
‘Astrology is foolery and those that practise it are cunning, irreligious and self-deluding.’ Dowling snorted. ‘Now will you sit here all day?’
Jane placed herself afore me. ‘What did Owen Price say to you before I came into the room?’
‘It was difficult to fathom,’ I replied. ‘Something about Mercury being in opposition to Saturn, I think. Though it might have been Jupiter. Evidently I did not understand him well. Now I must fetch my jacket.’
She folded her arms and tossed her fiery red hair back off her forehead. ‘What did he say to you?’
‘He spoke with great prescience,’ I assured her. ‘He said that every man should beware the plague, wherever he be and wherever he goes.’
‘Good advice,’ Dowling muttered.
‘What?’ Jane exclaimed, furious. ‘He told you that? And what did you say to him?’
‘I said little,’ I answered. ‘For I was not paying him, and I did not wish to be rude.’
Jane narrowed her green eyes and peered like she would see inside my head. ‘What did he say?’
‘Little that made sense.’ I tried to squeeze past her delicate frame.
She let me leave, mouth hanging open, still trying to work out how Price had failed her so completely. I would not be wearing Owen Price’s shoes. Jane knew where he lived.
Dowling followed me out, sombre. ‘She will not rest until you take her north.’
‘Aye,’ I whispered. ‘But I am not sure I want to go just yet.’
‘Then you have my deepest sympathy and I pray to God He guides you wisely.’ Dowling waved a mighty paw. ‘Now let’s get to Burke’s house. I have the address.’
Chapter Seven
WHETHER THE GOODS BE IN THE CUSTODY OF THE THIEF
Behold the signifier of the thief or thieves; and if he or they give their power to another planet, the things stolen are not in the keeping of the thief or thieves.
Henry Burke lived upon Leadenhall Street, not a sniff from Aldgate. I tried knocking on the door while Dowling hid inside the graveyard of St Katherine Cree, watching. Yet the servant wouldn’t admit me entry, nor give me any clue as to Burke’s whereabouts. I returned to the graveyard frustrated.
‘Keep walking,’ Dowling hissed as I approached. ‘I’ll swear he watches you from the house.’
I continued round the perimeter of the church and back to where Dowling crouched, walking stooped so none might see me over the wall.
‘You saw him?’ I whispered.
‘Aye,’ Dowling growled from beneath the shadow of a yew tree, peering across the street. ‘I saw someone with nose pressed to the window, someone with a periwig and a bright white collar. Not a servant.’
‘So he sits in his house and refuses guests.’ I leant with my back to the wall and plucked a sprig of wormwood. ‘We wait for him to leave, follow him, and confront him in some public place where he cannot escape us.’
‘He will not linger long,’ Dowling predicted. ‘He dashes about like a wormy dog.’
He lingered nearly two hours, as afternoon became evening. It wasn’t until six that the front door opened and Burke’s fleshy head appeared. He looked both ways up the street afore emerging into the humidity, pulling the door closed behind, and hurrying off up the street, short legs pumping hard. He wore a jacket and overcoat over a stiff, black waistcoat, a ridiculous outfit for such a warm night. Wet hair stuck like plaster to his sweaty pate. At least he left the periwig behind.
We followed his bouncing buttocks west along Leadenhall before they turned right up King Street towards the south gate of the Guildhall, the very same place I toiled for Thomas Player. It was easy to follow from a distance, for every second house was closed and the streets were almost empty.
Burke marched beneath the south porch, across the marbled hall, and out into the courtyard. He stopped for a moment before heading towards the chapel of St Mary Magdalen, where these days they held the Court of Requests. Here apprentices sought their release, else otherwise made complaint against their masters. We gave him a few moments afore following him through the entrance and into the old church.
The main proceedings all happened at one end of the hall. A weary-looking official stood upon a wooden lectern fielding the complaints of several men at once. Burke stood deep in conversation with another important-looking fellow, speaking quick, arms and hands working hard. The official let him talk, nodding unhappily, then beckoned him towards a desk where he took a quill and wrote on a piece of paper. Burke waved the paper in the air, folded it carefully and slipped it into his coat. He drew a breath, scanned the room, then froze, staring in our direction. I looked away, bewildered that he seemed to recognise us, barely noticing the swish of a velvet jacket against my thigh. When I glanced again, Burke stood stiff between two tall fellows, one fair, one dark.
The fair man swaggered, tall and strong, beaver-fur hat cocked at an angle. A powder-blue mouchoir billowed from his breast pocket, draped against the deeper blue of his smooth velvet jacket, same jacket that rubbed against me. He picked at his nose like he cared not who saw him. The older man wore a beautiful red silk suit and strutted, arrogant. His hair was black as coal, eyelashes long as a woman’s. A small brown mole nestled beneath his left nostril.
The fair man wrapped an arm about Burke’s shoulders and spoke into his ear, toying with the lapels of his coat. Burke slumped, shrank back into his jacket and dropped his gaze to the floor. Then suddenly, too fast for me to anticipate, the man with the hat caught my eye. I looked away quick, pretending a fascination with the proceedings afore us. A twitchy young man, with surly expression upon his spotty face, stood lonely at the bench.
Dowling tugged at my forearm. All three were gone. By the time we reached the courtyard they were out the gate, cutting the corner in front of St Lawrence Jewry. We gave them thirty yards’ lead before trailing them down the hill at a distance until they stepped into The Mermaid.
Dowling stopped behind The Standard and I poked him in the ribs. ‘Ye cannot stop here, Davy, what if they pass through onto Friday Street?’
‘There is more than one door?’ He looked surprised. ‘You go then. I’ll run round to Friday Street and watch they don’t leave. If they do, I will fetch you.’ It was a scheme that appealed, for Dowling would stand out in The Mermaid like a duchess in a brothel. He detested taverns, and disdained those that frequented such establishments, myself included.
I bumped into the hostess afore I finished opening the door. Though it was evening, most of the tables were empty and quiet; no sweet smell of tobacco, no singing, no laughter, nor any sign of Burke and friends. The hostes
s clutched her apron to her lap and led me through a thin cloud of acrid smoke towards the fireplace.
I spoke low into her ear. ‘Do you know Henry Burke? He came in with two other men.’
Her hand alighted on my arm like a little bird. ‘He is in conference, sir, and with men who will not countenance disturbance. You might wait.’
I allowed her to seat me at a small table of my own, next to the slow fire burning in the grate, a heady brew of tar pitch and frankincense. My eyes watered, but I stayed for the protection it offered from the plague.
She fetched a mug of ale, before drifting off, distracted.
No more than a dozen of us sat there in the wide open space and I was the only one to drink alone. I felt like the word ‘spy’ was writ upon my forehead. Time passed slowly. Nerves stretched tight inside my chest, taut and fine-tuned. I stared towards the corridor to my left, the passage that led to the private rooms. The hostess passed in and out two times, both times with a tray of three ales, each time smiling all airy and innocent.
I drank as slow as I could, yet my pot was long empty afore they finally appeared. Burke slouched, trudging slowly, anguish painted in thick red strokes upon his ruddy cheeks. I slumped into my chair, shy of being seen. I thought I watched discreetly until the one with the beaver hat stopped and stared straight at me. My heart tripped a beat. Not a muscle of his hard face moved. I pretended he wasn’t there, but my skin burnt hotter than the embers in the grate.
He kicked at the leg of my table. ‘Who are you?’
I tried feigning injured innocence. ‘No one.’
He smiled, a humourless expression of contempt. He rested his hands upon the table and lowered his young, hard face into mine. ‘You are a spy. Who do you work for?’
I signalled to the hostess and avoided his eye. ‘I work at the Guildhall for Sir Thomas Player, and I live close by.’
‘What is your name?’ He spoke each word with great deliberation.
‘What is your name?’ I replied, indignant.
He breathed long and hard out of his nose then looked around as if he weighed up whether to punch me. I wondered where Dowling was. Was he not curious why we stayed so long? Instead the hostess came to my rescue, pecking at our sleeves and twittering in our ears.
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