The Betrayal of Thomas True, page 25
It had once seemed a childish plan, hardly likely to work, yet as he ascended through God’s great palace, he felt certain the Rat had taken the bait and was already tracing through the city with murder on his mind. One of his traps was about to spring, but which would it be?
The Rat stopped and checked to make sure the way was clear. The narrow alleyways were empty, while the overhanging buildings gave enough cover to make sure nobody could follow such a winding route.
It was not a pleasurable thing to commit murder. Such killings had been necessary at first, to silence men and boys too stupid to salvage their own souls. Martin Lightbody, that reckless sinner, who took the bribe and gave names, only to streak about the city, threatening to expose the Society’s spies unless he was given more money – he had to be hunted down, his neck cut. Yet, it was a terrifying business, watching the blade slice into his neck as he’d cried for his ma. The Rat banished the thought. As the justices said, it was clemency not violence. Then there was Daniel, that forsaken young man sent into the molly houses to clear his father’s debts. It was a dreadful thing to watch the clubs raining down on his body. A quick death, mind you, unlike poor Jack Huffins, who lived a full week without his tongue before the lions silenced him, once and for all. Framing Rettipence had almost worked, thieving his precious tin and leaving it in that squalid tavern…
The Rat smiled. None of it mattered now. Gabriel Griffin would be dead within the hour, then the way would be clear for the justices to demand their raids, and the marshal would be forced to comply, while the Rat … the Rat would slip away as though nothing had ever happened, and return to a godly life, safe in the knowledge that London was purged of sin, and the righteous had been spared.
Across the city, the bells of countless churches were chiming a quarter to midnight, and there loomed the great dome of St Paul’s.
‘Good saints and apostles,’ said the Rat, hurrying onwards, ‘smile down on me tonight.’
Gabriel leaned against the balustrade high on the perimeter of the dome and followed the lanes below. Was he there, the Rat? His nerves skittered at the thought of it: a pair of eyes looking back at him from within a black hood. Gabriel could sense him amidst the cluttered stews, jagged lanes, and buried streets. Where was the Rat coming from, he wondered? A smart residence on Camomile Street, perhaps, or Smithfield Market? Or was it Covent Garden? Gabriel steadied his breath. Or the bridge, he thought, chewing his lip.
He circled the walkway, tracing his eyes along the Thames, then marked the three locations again to be sure he had his bearings. Below him on the south side of the cathedral, he could make out the slanted roofs of the dry-stores where he’d left the dummy amongst the barrels. There was no movement as far as he could make out, no sign of anybody approaching the railings, thanks be to God. He moved around to the west side of the dome, the city stretching out to St James’s Park and beyond, where the Thames curled away into the distance. Gabriel stopped and scanned across the flat roof of the Fleet Prison to the stacked warehouses that ran either side of the ditch. Treasa’s torch was flickering on the roof, but no beacon, not yet. Gabriel ran his eyes across the sloping rubble to the north of the city, where the open square of Gray’s Inn Gardens sat like a footprint amongst the surrounding buildings, then further to the fields beyond. Somewhere amidst that tree-spotted patchwork, behind the faint mountains of rubbish, was the abandoned chapel. ‘Will you send up your flare, Henry?’ he asked, leaning out as a cool wind blew through his shirt. He hoped so, for even though he bore George Lavender no spite, he liked the young man least of all. Yet still, Gabriel thought of the sick woman in her bed, and the little girl who would doubtless perish without the care and protection of her brother. ‘Ay,’ he murmured, chastising himself, ‘don’t let it be George, neither. Don’t let it be any of ’em.’
He stepped a little further around the dome, following the black cut of High Holborn, before settling his eyes on a cluster of shrouded buildings. ‘Field Lane,’ he muttered to himself. There was no sign of arson, no flames burning between the huddled roofs. Careful, Clap, he thought. If the Rat pays you a visit, he’ll be smart and cruel, no matter his years. He shook his head, tutting. ‘I know it ain’t you, Mister Vivian. Forgive me.’
There came the sound of bells, chiming a quarter to midnight, and Gabriel lowered his head and recited a prayer. His chest felt tight as he clasped his hands together. ‘Please Lord, I beg you; I ain’t asked for much and never got nothing I wished for. You weren’t listening when you took my family. Please listen now.’ He turned and stared up beyond the curve of the dome to the cross above, glittering gold against the heavens. ‘End this tonight, will you? Don’t think you like the Rat any more than we do. Don’t think you see evil in my friends. Ain’t we all good fathers, good sons, hardworking men like the rest of ’em?’ He opened his eyes. ‘Ay,’ he said, dropping his hands. ‘You ain’t listening.’
So, with a deep breath, he began his slow patrol, anxiously orbiting the dome as he rested his eyes on each of the traps, waiting for one of them to snap.
The dry-stores, the ditch, the chapel, Field Lane.
The dry-stores, the ditch, the chapel, Field Lane.
The dry-stores, the ditch, the chapel, Field Lane …
The Rat snuck closer, treading lightly. Griffin must be sleeping barely ten yards away on the other side of the open entrance. So close, so unguarded, such a fool. Softly, softly, moving silently around obstacles, careful not to trip, certain shapes took form in the gloom, and there he was, the outline of a recumbent man, nestled almost out of view. ‘I found you, Mister Griffin. Now go to Hell.’
The last chime of midnight was still hanging in the air when the dome of St Paul’s flashed orange. Gabriel spun around, the stones jumping under his feet to an almighty explosion, a huge ball of orange flame rising into the sky. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No.’ He ran around to the south side of the cathedral and bellowed as his eyes fell on what was left of the dry-stores. Nothing more than a burning crater now, surrounded by shards of splintered barrels and smouldering wood.
‘Please,’ he shouted, spinning around, hoping to see a flare above the ditch, or from the abandoned chapel, or from Field Lane. Yet there was nothing, while below him, an inferno raged and crackled, more barrels bursting into the air.
The trap had worked, just as Gabriel had planned. The Rat had tried to kill him.
And the Rat was Thomas True.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Thomas could not sleep, thinking about Fump’s cryptic letter and Gabriel’s promise to catch the Rat. He felt a little frustrated to be in the dark. Why had Gabriel kept his plan a secret? It hurt. He could accept such callous mistrust from the other mollies, they were a suspicious lot anyway, but for Gabriel to be so sly – that made his heart ache and left him feeling foolish for thinking they were better friends. He sat up in bed, looking around the moonlit garrets. It must have been almost midnight. He kicked his sheets away and padded to the window, pulling open the shutters. The scaffolding was still in place, ready for the roof to be retiled. Thomas reached out and tested the poles to see how sturdy they were, then pulled himself out of the window and landed like a cat on the shaking boards. He laughed to feel the night wind ruffling his open shirt and peered down to the rushing water below. The river was dark blue, swirling with frothing eddies as it dashed between the cataracts. He edged along the gangway, following the guy ropes with his fingers, then climbed up the ladder to the very top of the roof as it wobbled against the timber frame. He settled on top of the tiles, crossing his legs beneath him, and looked around. It was so peaceful on the roof, nothing to fear, nothing to fret about, only the twinkling sky and the happy moon. He leaned back and filled his lungs, tracing the far horizon, where the distant trees fringed Highgate. He smiled privately, closing his eyes to picture his favourite face. ‘My Gabriel,’ he said, brushing the rough tiles with his fingertips, imagining they were stubble. He rolled his head and looked out to the northwest of the bridge, where St Paul’s hunkered amongst the rooftops like a giant, swimming in the stew. Gabriel was there now, sleeping below that grand palace, his handsome head rested amongst the barrels. ‘My companion,’ said Thomas, hugging his knees to his chest, enjoying the sound of the words. ‘We shall live together one day, you and I, in a small cottage somewhere smart.’ He smiled, imagining them both suspended high above London, halfway between the cathedral and the candle shop. He could wait for the next day, when doubtless all would be explained to him and somehow, the Rat would be snared. Then Gabriel would be free to talk about happier things. Thomas clasped his hands together and prayed. There was so much he wanted to talk about. Gabriel’s childhood, what plans he had for the future, where his new lodgings might be and … was there any room for a second man to lodge with him?
He climbed to his feet and stepped gingerly to the edge of the roof, scattering chips of old tiles to the river below. His head whirled and he almost fell forwards into empty space, swinging back from the precipice just in time. He wiped his brow and laughed, only to be cut short by an almighty flash as the sky turned yellow. He turned his face away, then looked back to see a ball of flame shooting into the sky from the cathedral. The distant air warped and the roofs sprayed their tiles in an oncoming wave as his face was slapped by a hot, harsh wind. He jumped down to the scaffolding and climbed back inside his room. In his panic he didn’t know what to do. He paced the room for sometime, emptied his bladder into the chamber pot, then paced again. Was this the plan? Should he go and check on Gabriel? Or would he once again be messing things up?
Ten minutes later he’d made a decision and was clattering down the stairs as Abigail came running up.
‘Did you see it?’ she said, her eyes wide.
‘Yes, an explosion.’
‘We must go.’
They ran down to the shop together, where Mister and Mistress Squink were already filling baskets with candles. They collected as many as they could, then rushed out to join the throng of people hurrying over the bridge. They could not go quickly enough, for Thomas felt a deep sickness in his stomach, sensing somehow that this would be the most terrible night of his life.
Gabriel, he thought. Gabriel!
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Gabriel crashed his way down endless stairs to the doors, running into the churchyard, which was strewn with rubble from the explosion, half-ripped planks shot like spears through broken windows. The watchman was running in all directions, shouting instructions to church men and neighbouring residents, who were throwing pails of water into the boiling flames. They might as well have been thimbles for all the good they were doing. Amidst the shrieks, ringing bells and dancing shadows, Gabriel pulled his hat low and passed what was left of the dry-stores. Indeed, there was nothing left of them at all, except for the remains of so many barrels and the scorch marks stretching their black fingers across the burned gravel.
Already, a curious crowd was gathering around the railings. Gabriel pushed through them to the lanes beyond, pounding his boots to Thames Street in the direction of the bridge. Thomas would be almost home by now, having lit his dastardly flame in a hidden corner of the stores then fled in good time before the explosion. Safely ensconced and thinking Gabriel dead, the treacherous little Rat would wrap himself in his blankets and doubtless fall into a contented sleep, happy as a pup. Gabriel wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist, furious at his own passion, for it was one part rage, one part heartbreak.
The alleyways around Thames Street were teeming with people, hustling and bustling through the dark lanes to see what had happened, while above them, people were leaning from their shutters, calling out that the Great Fire was back, and that all of them were sure to burn. Gabriel passed Bell Alley and was approaching St James Garlickhythe Church when he caught sight of four faces, lit up bright as brasses by the tall windows. It was Thomas and the Squinks, rushing with the rest of the city towards the cathedral. Gabriel pulled back into a doorway and listened as they approached.
‘Do you really think they’ll want to buy candles?’ asked Uncle Squink, wrapping himself in his cloak. ‘It might not be proper.’
‘Pish to proper!’ snapped Aunt Squink. ‘A fire burning at the cathedral and what do we have here?’ She lifted her basket from beneath her cloak, shouting louder than any cockle-seller. ‘Miniature replicas of the very same church, crafted by expert hands, complete with a burning wick in perfect commemorative mimicry of the Great Explosion.’ She tilted the basket so all could see, and before she could tilt it back again, various hands were inside it, plucking souvenirs out like so many plums. ‘You see?’ she said. ‘By the end of the night, we shall have made enough money to pay Mister Sylva for the new roof.’
‘How clever you are, my darling,’ said Uncle Squink. ‘Who could have guessed Thomas’s creations would inspire people to collect candles like relics?’ He looked up at the turning seam of smoke stretching like a vast beanstalk into the sky. ‘Praise God for gifting us such glory.’
‘They are not my creations,’ corrected Thomas, following behind his aunt and uncle. He squeezed Abigail’s hand. ‘My cousin is the true artist, I am merely the architect.’ He traced the chimney of smoke back to its origin. His mind was caught in a tug-o-war, certain Gabriel was safe, certain he was dead. Surely, he’d been on the tower rather than sleeping in the dry-stores? Or was he somewhere else entirely, snaring the Rat just as he’d promised? It didn’t matter, so long as he was safe.
The air was thick with falling ash, and Abigail coughed. ‘Were you awake when the explosion happened?’ she asked privately.
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘I thought it must be the end of days at last; that all our sins had finally blown up like a volcano.’
‘It was gunpowder, I’m sure.’
‘Gunpowder, where?’
‘Barrels of gunpowder kept in the stores from the demolition. A friend told me about it; he was sleeping there.’
Abigail covered her mouth with her hands. ‘He must have been killed!’
‘Do you think so?’
Abigail shook her head, gripping Thomas’s arm with both hands. ‘Oh no, I’m sure I’m wrong, don’t worry.’
Thomas nodded as they passed a square church, its tall windows lit up like a lantern. He felt an overpowering urge to go inside and pray before they reached St Paul’s. ‘Abigail,’ he said, ‘I should hold back a moment to compose myself. Will you tell your parents I … I forgot my coat and had to run home?’
Abigail kissed his cheek, taking his basket of candles. ‘Of course, dear Thomas. Though you must find me when you’re finished.’ She stared up at him, her eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m frightened.’
Thomas squeezed her hand. ‘So am I.’
They embraced and parted, Thomas holding back as he watched the Squinks turn the corner to St Bennet’s Hill. When he was sure they were out of sight, he pressed his way through the oncoming hordes to the pedimented doorway of the church, where a gang of fire wardens were rolling out a water pump on a wooden trolley, ready to take it up to the cathedral. He pressed back to let them pass then stepped into the abandoned nave.
Gabriel watched the fire trolley race by, then followed Thomas inside the church. He looked around at the soaring windows and chequered flagstones, spying Thomas kneeling in the chancel, his head bowed. Ay, thought Gabriel, swallowing hard, you had better pray for your soul, the place you’re going.
He pushed his shoulders back and with a long breath to steady himself, approached the Rat.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Thomas allowed his tears to roll freely down his cheeks as he whispered his prayers, shaking his white knuckles so God might hear him more clearly.
‘Please Father, let Gabriel be safe, do not let him die. I think I would die too. I know my feelings are sinful, but I love him more than the world, I don’t know why, but it’s not an evil feeling, it’s a good feeling, and I mean you no harm. I pray, I pray, I pray— ’
‘Pray all ye like,’ came a rumbling voice by his side. ‘Ye failed.’
Thomas opened his eyes and saw Gabriel standing above him. He sprang up and threw his arms around him. ‘You survived! Thank God, thank God!’ He pulled back, wiping his eyes and grinned. ‘I thought you were dead, but I didn’t want to believe it. Did you catch him?’
Gabriel’s eyes were like iron bolts. ‘Ay.’
‘Well then,’ said Thomas looking around the church, ‘where is he?’
Gabriel nodded. ‘Here.’
Thomas laughed, turning in a circle, then laughed again, only for his happy smile to fade under Gabriel’s glare. ‘What do you mean?’
Gabriel was trembling. ‘Enough, Thomas True. Even yer name’s a lie.’
Thomas tried to take his hand. ‘What are you talking about?’
Gabriel gripped him by the wrist. ‘I tricked you, just like you tricked me. I caught you in my trap. Devil.’
Thomas gaped. ‘What is this? You’re hurting me, let me go.’
‘Hurting you? Hurting you? Could hurt you worse than this and it wouldn’t measure half the pain you’ve caused the rest of us. Slicing boys’ necks, beating their heads in, cutting their tongues out, burning innocent men alive, making fun of old friends even when they defended your name, and you… ’ He pushed Thomas to the flagstones and stood over him, jabbing his finger. ‘You talk about hurt?’
Thomas scrabbled backwards on his hands and knees, lifting himself up against a column. There was a candlestick by his side and he snatched it up. ‘Get back. You’re mad. Were you hit by the explosion?’
‘Bet you wish I was.’
‘What’s happening? I thought you were my friend.’
