Fire Catcher (11 page)

Chapter 27

Charlie took the handkerchief and smoothed it out. He tried not to be disconcerted that it was warm from Lily’s skin.

‘I recognised it the first time I saw it,’ said Charlie, turning it in his hands. ‘I just wasn’t sure why.’ His hands ran over the threads. ‘I must have seen it as a boy,’ he added.

‘Who was your mother?’ asked Lily sharply. ‘Why was she embroidering for Blackstone?’

‘She was a maid in his household,’ said Charlie. ‘I didn’t think I remembered anything about her. But I remember seeing this mermaid.’

‘Your mother was Blackstone’s maid?’ Lily’s mind was working. ‘The maid who hid his secret papers?’ she guessed. ‘So the stories were true?’

Charlie nodded. ‘That part at least.’ He turned his key thoughtfully.

‘Where did you get the handkerchief?’ he asked.

Lily swallowed, then her jaw jutted out defiantly.

‘Blackstone used it to blindfold my father,’ she said, ‘before executing him.’

The handkerchief lay accusingly in Charlie’s hand.

‘My father spied for the Republic,’ explained Lily. ‘He got information to win against Blackstone’s men. But Blackstone could not bear to be bested by a gypsy. After the war he came back to take his revenge.’

Lily swallowed, picked her knife up off the floor and stowed it in her skirts.

‘My brothers got back my father’s body. He had been blindfolded. With that.’

She nodded towards Charlie’s hand.

‘But then my brothers vanished. So it falls to me.’

‘It won’t bring your father back,’ said Charlie. ‘Revenging yourself on Blackstone.’

Lily’s eyes flashed. ‘Gypsies have always been persecuted,’ she said. ‘My mother died at the hands of a lynch mob. But we always pay our dues in the end.’

‘So you hope to find Blackstone and kill him?’

‘I don’t hope,’ corrected Lily. ‘I will serve him the same as he did my father. And I keep this handkerchief to close his eyes in the last moment.’

Charlie nodded. ‘That’s why you spy for Amesbury?’ he said. ‘To find Blackstone?’

‘One of the reasons.’

‘Blackstone killed my mother,’ said Charlie after a moment. ‘For hiding his papers. It’s why I can’t read so well,’ he added. ‘She taught my brother letters, but died before it was my turn.’

‘A maid who could read?’

Charlie shrugged. ‘Some learn.’

‘So you seek your own revenge?’ asked Lily.

Charlie shook his head.

‘I’ve had done with thoughts of that kind. But I mean to discover the secrets of this key.’ He held it up. ‘I think it’s what my mother would have wanted.’

Lily took back the handkerchief.

‘Do you know why your mother sewed it?’ she asked.

Charlie shook his head. ‘Do you?’

‘No. I don’t think it matters.’

Charlie looked back at the handkerchief. The mermaid’s tail was stitched with seven letters cascading downwards. They were the same style as on the London Stone.

He tilted his head.

‘Roman numbers,’ he said. ‘The mermaid’s tail is a date.’

Lily nodded. ‘1649. The year the old King was beheaded. It commemorates something. Perhaps a battle.’

‘1649 and a picture of a mermaid,’ said Charlie. ‘Does it mean anything to you?’

Lily shook her head. ‘I never thought about it. Would it tell us anything about Blackstone?’

‘Women stitch handkerchiefs for all kinds of things,’ said Charlie, handing it back. ‘It could be a battle as you say. Most likely it doesn’t mean much. Just a work to employ idle hands. We should go find Torr. Where did Amesbury say he was?’

Lily eyed him warily.

‘First tell me what you made of this,’ she said, removing the round robin.

Charlie glanced at it.

‘Not so much,’ he said.

Lily raised her eyebrows.

‘Perhaps something about the names,’ said Charlie grudgingly. ‘Working men all. How came they to write?’

‘The handwriting isn’t good,’ Lily pointed out.

‘Even so.’

‘What of that?’ asked Lily, pointing to the number four. ‘Alchemy?’

‘I asked an apothecary about the symbol,’ said Charlie. ‘He says it represents lye. Thinks alchemists wouldn’t use such a low substance.’

‘You didn’t ask an alchemist?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Do you know any?’

‘A few,’ said Charlie. ‘They cluster on Nile Street. No one wants an alchemist in the city walls,’ he added. ‘They cause explosions. But they’ve managed to hold their ground.’

Charlie looked back at the round robin. Nine names.

Something was buzzing at the edge of his brain. There was a pattern. A pattern he could not quite see.

He pushed the round robin back to Lily impatiently.

‘I’ve told you what I know,’ he said. ‘We lose time. Where is Torr?’

‘Fleet Street,’ said Lily. ‘In a tavern called the Cheshire Cheese.’

‘Fleet Street,’ said Charlie. He eyed Lily. ‘The marriage street,’ he added. ‘Where a minister will marry you for a few pence.’

‘I know what a Fleet Wedding is,’ she snapped.

Charlie raised his eyebrows at the uncharacteristic slip. Perhaps Lily had fallen foul of a Fleet Wedding. She didn’t look the type. Her composure returned so fast he wondered if he’d imagined it.

‘Will the fire reach Fleet Street?’ she asked.

‘It could,’ said Charlie. ‘The Fleet River is a good firebreak between east and west. But with the fire so high and the wind so fierce, cinders could drop. Many roofs are wood shingle. And plenty of old soldiers keep gunpowder.’

‘Then we should go now,’ said Lily.

Chapter 28

Clarence greeted Louise Keroulle with a wide smile. He ushered her in quickly, lest they were seen. The King’s French mistress was enchantingly pretty up close. Much younger than Barbara too, Clarence noted with pleasure.

Clarence allowed his eyes to roam the plump rounded breasts and tantalising shape of her body.

‘You think the tide may turn against the King?’ asked Louise, pouting her little lips. She didn’t sound as unhappy as she might have.

The Earl of Clarence flinched.

‘I said no such thing,’ he said.

Louise pointed. ‘Your clothes say it,’ she said. ‘You wear Royalist pomp. But you keep your collar the old Republic style. In case the political tide turns again.’

Clarence concealed his surprise with a cough.

‘But of course you are French,’ he murmured. ‘You have a talent for fashion.’

Louise smiled. It was the first kind thing which had been said to her since Barbara Castlemaine’s return.

‘I can help you?’ she asked. ‘That is why you send for me?’

Clarence’s rounded features shifted to a calculating expression.

‘You dislike Barbara Castlemaine?’ he asked.

Louise’s eyes narrowed. ‘I hate that woman.’

Clarence nodded. He moved to place a hand on the white skin of Louise’s delightfully plump arm. She didn’t recoil, but her face suggested it took her some effort.

‘She is disgusting,’ said Louise. ‘Barbara catches Charles with . . . with whore tricks. Offering herself however he wants.’ Louise lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Barbara boasts about the filthy things she does with him. She laughs about it.’

‘She has no decency,’ agreed Clarence carefully, ‘but sadly men are weak. Even Kings.’ He moved a little closer to her. ‘Perhaps I could discover some of Barbara’s tricks. Tell them to you, so you might use them.’

‘What would an old man know of such things?’ retorted Louise rudely. ‘No trick would best Barbara in any case. She is without shame. Last summer,’ she added, ‘she spread a letter around court. Saying that I made love to my own brother, George. He had to leave England,’ she continued furiously. ‘I am sure it was her. Barbara. Trying to weaken me. To lessen my friends.’

Louise shook her head so vigorously that her shining brown curls made a flurry around her face. ‘She wants to push me out,’ she concluded. ‘But I’ll not go. Not because of her. But people still say,’ she concluded in an outraged whisper, ‘that George ’ad me from beehind,’ her pronunciation grew more French in her fury, ‘there,’ she pointed to Clarence’s desk, ‘on that table.’

‘It sounds like the kind of lewd falsehood Barbara would say,’ agreed Clarence. Although in reality, he had to admit it wasn’t. Barbara was ruthless, but she liked people to know who had beaten them. Secret rumours weren’t her style.

‘Barbara hates me too,’ said Clarence. ‘Because I see her true motives. She wants to go out on the Royal Barge so people will love her. So her illegitimates might fare a better chance for the Crown.’

‘Charles said that would never be,’ said Louise. ‘England won’t crown a bastard.’

‘We executed a King,’ said Clarence. ‘England does as she sees fit.’

Louise’s soft forehead rippled.

‘You love the King?’ Clarence asked soothingly.

Louise nodded, her curls bouncing.

‘Yes, I love him.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘I have loved him since I arrived in court.’

‘Barbara Castlemaine has come between you?’ Clarence’s expression was sympathetic.

‘Yes.’ Louise sniffed, and she turned to Clarence with outrage in her face. ‘She struck me! Here.’ Louise tapped the side of her face.

Clarence nodded.

‘She is hated in Parliament,’ he soothed. ‘It is well known Barbara’s only pleasure is spending the King’s money and gaining advancement for her children.’

‘They are
not
his children,’ spat Louise. ‘I hear the stories. She opens her legs for all the court.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Clarence.

‘Four children the old sow has birthed,’ continued Louise, her voice rising. ‘She must hang so low between her legs, a man need not raise her skirts.’

‘Quite . . .’ began Clarence, his face colouring.

‘And she is
old
,’ fumed Louise. ‘She has a whisker on her chin, like a witch. I have seen it!’

‘I’m sure she has many such . . .’

‘And she does secret things,’ continued Louise, her tone dropping. ‘Things she hides from Charles.’

Clarence’s jowls wobbled in interest. He’d heard rumours that Barbara plotted against the crown, but had never believed it.

‘Secret things?’ he inquired, trying to keep his tone neutral.

‘Yes,’ breathed Louise, excited to have captured her audience. ‘Dog’s piss, she uses, on her face.’ Her eyes were narrowed in spite. ‘For wrinkles,’ Louise concluded, her expression making clear the scandalous nature of such behaviour. ‘Barbara works all kinds of disgusting potions and balms into her old face,’ she added. ‘
Lady
Castlemaine doesn’t dare tell Charles the expense.’

Clarence tried not to let his disappointment show. The depths of female vanity never shocked him.

‘The question is,’ interrupted Clarence, ‘how can we help the King to see reason?’

Louise calmed slightly at this. ‘Reason?’ She pronounced the word in such a way that Clarence wondered if her English was failing her.

‘How can we help His Majesty see that Barbara is bad for the country?’

‘I don’t know.’ Louise was crying again. ‘I have tried. Charles is kind. But I see in his eyes he thinks only of her. I
hate
her.’ Louise’s face had turned beet red.

‘Do you know the King’s eldest son? Monmouth?’

Louise nodded, her face twisting. ‘He’s horrid,’ she said. ‘Monmouth lies about everything.’

‘He takes after his mother,’ said Clarence. ‘You’ve met Lucy Walter? Middle-aged woman. Dresses like a French harlot?’

Louise gave a little laugh. ‘No French harlot would clothe herself so vulgarly.’

‘Perhaps you could talk with Monmouth,’ said Clarence, encouraged. ‘He keeps the Royal Barge. Barbara wishes it readied for the King to view the fire.’

‘So if the Royal Barge weren’t available . . .’ suggested Louise, catching on.

‘Precisely,’ agreed Clarence.

Louise toyed with a bouncy curl. ‘Barbara would be humiliated,’ she said, taking obvious pleasure from the thought, ‘in front of Charles.’

Clarence smiled at her encouragingly.

‘Why can’t you speak with Monmouth?’ she said eventually, frowning at the thought of speaking to him.

Clarence coughed.

‘I’m a boring old man,’ he said. ‘Monmouth is a boy. News from a pretty girl is much more interesting for him.’

‘So this is politics,’ said Louise. ‘Charles said I should learn it. I suppose if I want to stay, I should.’

Clarence said nothing.

‘Where would I find Monmouth?’ said Louise.

Chapter 29

As Charlie and Lily arrived at the head of Fleet Street their route was blocked. Refugees from Cheapside and Poultry intermingled with crazed Fleet Streeters trying to remove their possessions. The tall black-and-white buildings were crawling with ropes, bundles and intrepid householders. Each diamond-paned window had clusters of desperate Londoners, fighting to lower valuables. The small doorways were crammed with smartly dressed servants hauling out furniture. Shopkeepers were removing stock. Tavern owners were rolling away barrels of ale. Coffee houses threw sacks of beans from upper windows.

‘It seems no one told Fleet Street residents,’ said Lily, ‘that their street won’t burn.’

Charlie looked east where the bloody maw of the fire towered. The sound of the distant flames was deafening. He’d never seen flames so tall.

‘Perhaps it will burn,’ he said, eyeing a man inching along the half-timbered exterior of a five-storey Fleet Street house. ‘We should hurry. If we could get to Shoe Lane there are gardens behind. We could get into the Cheshire Cheese that way.’

‘How do we get to Shoe Lane?’ said Lily. ‘The crowds are too thick.’

‘Behind the Fleet Prison,’ said Charlie, ‘the Fleet River narrows to a ditch. Timbers run across to brace the buildings either side. We can cross that way.’

He was eyeing Lily’s skirts.

‘I can climb as well as you,’ she said shortly. ‘And I know the way to the Fleet Prison.’

They cut back up into Fleet Lane, behind the sturdy walls of Fleet Prison. From the barred windows came wails of prisoners petitioning to be freed. Gaolers guarding the entrance had already begun releasing a steady stream of debtors. No one expected the fire to stop at Cheapside.

‘This way,’ said Charlie, beckoning Lily over a stone wall bordering the Fleet River. Though the flames looked half a mile away, he could feel the heat of the fire. The air was warm and still.

Lily was covering her mouth.

‘This isn’t a river,’ she accused, glaring at the stinking slurry. ‘A river moves.’

Charlie glanced up river.

‘It looks like a cart and horses pitched in upstream,’ he said. ‘They block the flow. People are too busy getting their goods out to clear it.’

‘That doesn’t explain the stink.’

‘The prisoners make their waste here,’ said Charlie, his eyes watering from the smell. ‘And the households. The hot summer has dried it out.’

‘And the heat of the fire,’ said Lily, wiping sweat from her forehead. ‘I feel it even here.’

Banked by brick houses and high prison walls the Fleet was barely more than a reeking ditch. Thick timber beams braced the buildings all the way along. Each was slimed over and slippery. Filth streaked downwards from toilet holes on either side.

Charlie judged the best crossing point and dropped down. His toes slid in the ooze and then held firm.

‘Be careful here,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s as slick as ice.’

He balanced and then walked quickly along, holding out an arm for ballast. Behind him Lily’s face was scrunched up in disgust. She took out her knives, then made across on all fours, using the blades for traction.

‘Two knives,’ observed Charlie as she righted herself, holstered the knives at her hip and scaled across the adjoining wall.

‘Four,’ she said. ‘You’ll never see the other two.’

‘Remind me never to cross you.’

‘Or put a hand up my skirts. Which way now?’

‘This way,’ he said, pointing west. ‘To Shoe Lane.’

As Charlie suspected, the cobblers had long ago deserted with what meagre possessions they had. The street was almost empty and it was easy to cross the gardens to the alleyway leading to the Cheshire Cheese.

From the back of the tavern they could see the commotion inside.
There were four floors, and a jettied fifth which Lily pointed to.

‘The top floor,’ she said. ‘That’s what Amesbury’s contact said.’

Charlie’s gaze ranged the building, searching for a way in. Near where they stood were two small doors leading to a wood store. Opening one door could lend them a little height to climb on to the half timber.

He stared back up at the leaded window of the top storey. A gaggle of women were in a flurry behind it. Charlie recognised their black-and-white clothes. They were Quakers.

Charlie took them in. ‘I don’t think Torr is here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Those women are Quakers,’ he said.

‘And?’

‘Quakers are against churches and kings,’ said Charlie. ‘Can you imagine a Catholic Royalist in their midst?’

Lily took the point.

‘So Amesbury’s contact was wrong?’ she said. ‘I don’t see it.’

Charlie eyed the top floor which jettied out over the road.

‘Amesbury’s contact was a Catholic boy,’ he said. ‘So I assume he didn’t write this address?’

‘No,’ said Lily. ‘It was a picture.’

A new possibility dawned on Charlie.

‘A picture of the different floors?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Lily. ‘There was no misunderstanding,’ she added, sounding insulted. ‘A cross for the floor where Torr was. And a sign for the Cheshire Cheese.’

‘But a cross can be any way up,’ said Charlie. ‘What if you read the plan upside down?’

‘Then Torr would be in the main tavern,’ said Lily, pointing to the ground level window. ‘That couldn’t be.’

Charlie shook his head.

‘What if, instead of a top floor, Torr had a cellar?’

Lily’s gaze dropped down.

‘Fleet Street is a merchant and tavern place,’ said Charlie. ‘Most buildings have big cellars for stock. Which would mean,’ he added, pointing to the wood-store doors. ‘Those doors could be the way in.’

Lily was there before him easing open the doors. A wooden ladder led downwards. Below was dank, empty and deserted. Charlie hesitated as Lily beckoned him over.

‘You’re afraid of cellars?’ she asked.

‘Strange memories of them is all.’

Lily blinked her dark eyes and lowered herself on to the ladder. He saw her vanish into the gloom.

Charlie pushed away an image of Blackstone’s wife Teresa, in her cellar of ribbons and poppets. He was never quite sure if it was a memory or a dream. Charlie knew he must have lived in Blackstone’s house, whilst his mother worked as his maid. But he had no clear pictures of that time. Only frightening flashes.

He flipped a leg over the edge and climbed down the ladder. The bottom rung was broken and a stale chemical aroma greeted him. By the slim shaft of daylight Charlie made out a large table on its side. Signs of a struggle perhaps.

He could just make out the centre of the cellar. There were a few barrels there. But all beyond was black.

Charlie listened carefully. He could hear Lily’s light breath and the faint rustle of her skirts. But every now and then he thought he caught something else. Like the faintest inhale and exhale. As though a monster slept deep beneath them.

‘Where are you?’ he hissed, moving reluctantly away from the sunlight.

There was only silence in reply. Charlie felt his heartbeat quicken. Then a tinderbox flared.

‘There’s no one down here,’ said Lily, appearing at the other end of the cellar. ‘But you’d better come and look.’