by Jo Macauley
“The King pays me to discover the truth by any means necessary,” Strange interjected calmly, holding up a hand. “And His Majesty always believes what I tell him. I have already had a private audience with him and he knows what has truly occurred. I must admit, though, that there were a few gaps in my story as I haven’t had a chance to hear from you in some time—”
“Then where were you when Ralph went to St Paul’s and tolled the bells?” Beth asked, her brow knitting.
“Yes, I owe you an apology. I had no idea that your signal would be summoning me for something so significant. I realize now, of course, that you must have been hoping to tell me of this plot at the Tower. I had heard the bells toll and was on my way, but then my passage was halted by an informant who told me there was a young man called Will with an urgent story to tell. I felt I must hear his story as soon as I could – though, it transpires, even he didn’t know everything...”
Beth quickly told Strange about the coded letter, Edmund Groby and their escape from the Doodgaan. “Will must have told you about the gunpowder on the ship, and we deduced that the coded message in that letter referred to a plot to use it here at the Tower against the King. But it was only at the last minute that we realized where the gunpowder was really hidden.”
“And you think the letter was written by Sir Henry Vale after the date of his execution?” Strange said dubiously.
“I’m certain of it. It was his seal and John recognized his handwriting.”
“That’s true, sir. I have seen it before in my job at the Navy Board. What’s more, the commissioner of the Board, Sir Roger Fortescue, is somehow involved in this along with Edmund Groby. They were both present when Arthur Jones was murdered, I witnessed them there myself. At least Fortescue shouldn’t be hard to find – Beth locked him down in the cellars here just before we foiled the plot, and with any luck he hasn’t been found as yet...”
Alan Strange nodded thoughtfully, not speaking for a moment as he took all this information in. He had drawn closer to them now, and Beth could make out his rugged, battle-scarred features and the deep-set grey eyes that gave nothing away.
“You have all done well – better than I could have hoped for,” he said at last. “If Vale is still alive, that is grave news indeed. He is surely the King’s most cunning and dangerous enemy. A man who has the means to breach the tight security of a state execution for treason and fake his own beheading is an opponent to be respected and feared. I’m afraid we have not heard the last of him. I’m certain of requiring your help again before too long.”
“Me and Beth will be ready at a moment’s notice, Mister Strange – won’t we, Beth?” said Ralph.
Before she could reply, Strange said, “I’m sure you will be. But as I see it, the three of you, all bringing different skills to bear, have succeeded in this mission. Someone with knowledge of the Navy Board, its ways and personnel, may well come in handy. Are you with us, John Turner?”
It took only the briefest glances in Beth’s direction to bring John to a decision. “Yes, sir. I’m with you.”
Beth exchanged a broad grin with John. A small part of her had been dreading the idea that she might not have a reason to see him again. But now that wouldn’t be a problem she was very pleased – and she could see he was too.
“So what now?” she asked the spymaster.
“Now ... you shall go outside and enjoy the celebrations!” The words came not from Alan Strange, but from another figure now standing in the doorway. His voice was a clear and confident, with the hint of a French accent. As the man approached, Strange turned towards him and bowed deeply.
“Your Majesty.”
Beth’s heart leaped. King Charles II!
He wore a long, glistening black wig of the sort he had made fashionable since returning from exile in France, along with voluminous robes of scarlet, white and blue, and a long golden chain draped round his neck. His stockings were of pristine white silk, with royal blue garters just below the knee; a neatly trimmed black moustache decorated his upper lip.
“Mister Strange here has told me much of what has been happening of late,” said His Majesty. “But I suspect that the mysterious Alan Strange doesn’t even tell the King all – just what he needs to know. And perhaps that is for the best, otherwise I should probably be a-feared to ever set foot out of doors!” He chuckled. “I do know, though, what you young people have done for your King and your country today, and I shall always remember it. Now, my friends, you are of course free to go. Please accept my apologies, and try to forget you were ever in this awful place. Make the most of the festivities, and if there is anything else I can do for you, you have only to ask.”
“Er, there is just one small matter, Your Majesty,” Ralph piped up. He held up his hands and rattled his chains loudly.
The King’s hearty laughter echoed off the dungeon’s stone walls as he swept out, waving one of the guards in to come and release them.
Chapter Twenty-Two - Celebrations
It was dark when Beth and the others finally stepped outside. She took in big, grateful breaths of the cold evening air and looked all about at the glow of countless bonfires dotted all over the city. The merrymaking was in full swing, with people laughing, singing and dancing around the biggest fire of them all – the one she had feared so much was going to be the source of the King’s assassination earlier in the day.
“Get used to this, friends,” Ralph remarked as he ambled along beside Beth and John.
“What do you mean?” John asked.
“Royal entertainments! Didn’t you hear the man? We can have anything we want!”
“I don’t think we were supposed to take that too literally,” John cautioned. “I mean, you could try asking for your own royal palace on the banks of the Thames, but I wouldn’t be building my hopes up too much if I were you!”
“I think,” agreed Beth, “that we would be better off saving our favours ’til we are really in need of them.”
“Aw, rats!” groaned the crestfallen Ralph.
They found themselves drawn towards the big bonfire and, in its light, Beth caught sight of the theatre manager Huntingdon and his party dancing a merry jig to a solo fiddler, with an appreciative audience looking on and clapping in time to the music. Typical theatre folk, she thought warmly. Never happy unless they’re the centre of attention! Only a short while before, she had thought she might never see them again. And then Beth saw another welcome sight: Maisie was approaching, and eagerly guiding a familiar figure towards them.
“Here she is!” Maisie cried, and she and Beth exchanged hugs and fond greetings. “Will here was asking where Beth Johnson was, and I said I’d help him find you.”
They all greeted Will fondly, glad to see he was all right. Beth introduced Maisie to John and Ralph – but then noticed that her young friend was scowling at her.
“I was starving, but the last I saw of you and John, you were running off with that hog roast. You disappeared out of my sight before I could even get a little mouthful of it! And then some strange bang happened and everyone started running around getting distracted—”
“Ah, sorry about that, Maisie...” Beth interjected quickly, trying not to laugh. “The hog was ... um...”
“It had gone off,” Ralph intervened. “Or at least it soon would have done. Would’ve given you terrible indigestion. They were told by the kitchen staff to get rid of it.”
“Well, I was so hungry I don’t think I should have minded a bit of tummy ache...” Maisie muttered.
Beth was simply relieved that her friend didn’t seem to know exactly what had happened with the explosion. She put an arm round the younger girl. “Believe me, Maisie, t’would have been the death of you. Why don’t you go over to Mister Huntingdon’s group and tell them we’ll join them anon?”
Maisie nodded, and skipped away towards the throng encircling the fire. Once she had gone, Beth turned to Will.
“We were so worried about you, Will. We hated
leaving you on that ship...”
“It was the right thing to do. And it’s worked out for the best, after all.”
“It was a lucky escape, you managing to stop that fuse before the gunpowder went up!” Ralph said.
“Well, it wasn’t easy thinking of a way to put out all the flames to get to it, I must say—”
Will was interrupted as they noticed that, standing on a special platform bathed in the light from the bonfire, Charles II had begun addressing the crowds.
“... and I wish to inform my subjects that today is a doubly special occasion. Not only do we celebrate the overthrow of a plot by Guy Fawkes to destroy the King and his parliament. My people, I can now reveal that this very day, a second attempt on the royal head has been made!” Gasps went up from the crowd, and the King held up his hands. “But I am pleased to say that as you can see, I still stand before you. The foul plot has been thwarted by the wit and courage of some very courageous subjects who have pledged their skills in my defence! For their sakes, their identities must remain secret, but I wish to publicly offer them my most hearty thanks...”
A great cheer went up, and continued long after the King had finished his speech and left the platform. Despite the celebrations, Beth couldn’t stop herself from peering out into the darkness, wondering if Edmund Groby was out there somewhere, plotting his next move...
As the crowd returned to its revelry, Maisie ran up to join Beth and the young men, throwing her arms round her friend. Ralph, meanwhile, had returned to the question of how Will had made his escape from the ship.
“So, you have to tell us – how did you manage to put the fire out? The flames were so intense, and that gunpowder fuse was burning down so quickly...”
Will let out a sigh of resignation and turned to his old friend. “If you remember, John, I had been drinking a lot of lemonade that morning before we rowed out to the abandoned ship. And by the time you found me I had been chained up for a long time...”
Ralph scratched his head. “I still don’t ... Oh, YUCK!” he exclaimed as Beth and her friends laughed heartily.
Epilogue
Red and orange shapes flickered in the black, rippling waters of the Thames. Smoke from bonfires drifted across the river, together with the mouth-watering smell of roasting and baking, and the happy babble of hundreds of voices. There was a rustling of wings from above, and a raven took flight from the battlements of the Tower. It swooped down low over a nearby rowing boat with a harsh caw before disappearing into the darkness. A light breeze parted the smoke momentarily, revealing a man with a missing finger pulling hard on the oars of the boat, scowling up at the festivities within the grounds of the Tower of London, and another enshrouded within a great cloak and hood, sitting in the stern sheets, glaring back at his oarsman.
“You failed me, Groby,” said Sir Henry Vale darkly. “Now the King will know I am alive, and will stop at nothing to catch me and finish the job his executioner failed to do the last time.”
“No one could have accounted for those meddling youngsters getting in the way,” rasped Groby.
Vale scoffed, and turned away from his henchman in disgust. “Our mission is incomplete, and I swear to God we shall finish it.” His dark eyes sparkled fiercely in the firelight as he glared towards the Tower. “If they did but know me, they would not be celebrating, but trembling in their shoes. They shall surely pay!”
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Beth Johnson
Actress extraordinaire at the King’s Theatre and – unbeknownst to her admiring audience – a much-valued spy. Tall and beautiful with chestnut brown hair and green eyes, Beth has risen from lowly depths as a foundling abandoned on the steps of Bow Church to become a celebrated thespian and talented espionage agent.
Sir Alan Strange
Tall, dark and mysterious, spymaster Alan Strange seeks out candidates from all walks of life, spotting the potential for high-quality agents in the most unlikely of places. Ruthless but fair, Strange is an inspiration for his recruits, and trains them well.
Ralph Chandler
Former street urchin Ralph has lead a rough-and-tumble existence, but his nefarious beginnings have their uses when employed in his role as one of Sir Alan Strange’s spies, working in the service of the King.
John Turner
Junior clerk at the Navy Board, handsome John imagines himself in more daring, adventurous circumstances – and he soon has the opportunity when he meets Beth Johnson and becomes part of her gang of spies.
Sir Henry Vale
Criminal mastermind and anti-King conspirator, Sir Henry Vale was supposedly executed by beheading in 1662 for his attempt to take the King’s life – but all may not be as it seems...
Edmund Groby
Squat, swarthy and with one ominous finger missing from his left hand, Groby is a relentless villain and loyal henchman. He hates the monarchy and all it represents, and will stop at nothing to prevent our gang from derailing the King-killer’s plans.
Maisie White
A young orange-seller at the theatre where Beth works, Maisie has been quickly taken under the older girls’ wing – but she knows nothing of her friend’s double life as a spy...
A Letter from the Author
Dear Reader,
I hope you have enjoyed this book. While Beth Johnson and her friends are fictitious characters, the world that they inhabit is based on history.
From 1642 to 1651, supporters of the monarchy fought against supporters of Parliament for control of England. King Charles I was executed, and Oliver Cromwell became ruler of England.
After Oliver Cromwell’s rule ended, Parliament went through a troubled time. In 1660, they invited the old king’s son, Charles II, to come back to England as king. However, there were still some people who hated the idea of a king running the country, and plotted to assassinate him.
Theatres had been banned in England during Oliver Cromwell’s Parliament. However, when Charles II came to the throne, the ban was lifted. Drama began to thrive and women were allowed to perform on the stage. It would have been an exciting time for young actresses like Beth Johnson.
Jo Macauley
Read on...
...for a sneak peek of the next Secrets & Spies adventure.
Plague - London, August 1665
Death walked the streets of London, visiting households unseen in the night, and leaving bodies stiff in their sheets by morning.
The tell-tale red marks of the plague appeared without warning on living flesh, branding it as Death’s own. As if the disease had been a demon or a vampire, people attempted to ward it off with herbs, prayers and mystic signs. Even learned men walked with folded abracadabra-papers in their pockets, but none of these measures seemed to slow the plague’s progress.
Inside the Four Swans tavern, which lay deep in the nested streets of the city, the atmosphere was stifling and airless. The windows were shut fast even in the baking heat of August, for fear that the stench of plague would enter and carry the disease with it. Tempers flared like hot coals, and an argument was growing loud in the half-empty bar. Already the other drinkers had begun to shift their chairs away.
Tam Dixon swigged at his ale and glared with bloodshot eyes at his two companions.
“I’ll not be mocked! You’re always mocking me! The pair of you, in fact. One more word and I’ll crack your heads together, don’t think I won’t!”
“You couldn’t crack the head of a louse, you great lump,” sneered Martin, one of his erstwhile friends. “Sit down and drink.”
Tam hesitated, swaying from the alcohol, fuming like a powder keg ready to explode. He didn’t pay any attention to the thin, hollow-cheeked man who sat only an arm’s length away behind him. The man had been there all evening, apparently waiting for a companion to join him – at least, that was the message implied by the hat he’d left on a neighbouring chair, as though he were saving it for someone.
Just as Tam seemed about to sit back down, a fly settled on the
lip of his beer mug.
Jack Hardy couldn’t resist. “Now there’s a drinker who can hold his beer better than Tam!” He roared with laughter.
The table went flying over. Mugs shattered and a serving girl gave a theatrical scream. Martin and Jack were on their feet in seconds. Tam swung for Jack first. Fist met face with a resounding smack, and as Jack went staggering back through the chairs, Martin leaped and grabbed Tam round the neck. Tam roared and swung Martin back and forth, trying to loosen the stranglehold. Martin, teeth bared, hung on grimly. In the background, Jack coughed and spat a bloodied tooth onto the floor. The thin man, meanwhile, simply sat and watched the fight happen right in front of him, as if he were too much of a fool to move out of the way. He was very good at appearing foolish.
He had put a lot of work into it while training as a spy.
Tam thumped Martin hard in the guts, finally breaking his grip. As Martin fell backward, the thin man leaped to his feet and caught him before he could hit the floor.
“Steady, there!” he said, patting Martin on the shoulder. His other hand slipped into Martin’s pocket as fast as a striking adder. The afflicted man didn’t notice. Nobody did. The movement was as quick as the flicker of an eyelash, and drew about as much attention. The spy’s thin fingers closed on a small piece of paper. The prize. At last.
Martin shoved himself away without so much as a thank you, and the spy gave an offended harrumph. Clapping his hat upon his head, he left the tavern without looking back. The paper was still in his clenched hand, curled tight as a clock spring.
One little twist of paper could do a lot of things, the spy thought to himself as he hurried through the London streets. It could entitle you to a fortune, or strip you of one. The right words, with the right signature beneath, could condemn a man to death. And once in a while, a single scrap of paper like this could be the fuse that lit the gunpowder and blew a whole city sky-high.
