CHAPTER
27
THE INSIDE OF THE HOUSE was just as scarred. Soot streaked across fire-licked beams that somehow still supported the upper story. Dried mud tracked over every floor, so thick it was like we were still in the streets. Above the fireplace, a ruined painting of some long-forgotten landscape hung from a broken frame, oils melted, canvas crumpled.
Dr. Parrett. Poor, mad Dr. Parrett, whose family had died in the blaze last summer, still living here with the ghost of his son, James.
Molly didn’t seem bothered by the house at all. She stared in fascination at the ruins around her, too young to understand what it really meant. Cecily wasn’t so calm. She wrapped her arm around mine and pressed against me. I pressed back, chilled to the bone, wondering if James’s spirit was really still here.
“My son is sleeping,” Dr. Parrett whispered, “and he has to work on his studies tomorrow. So don’t you lot stay up all night.” He wagged his finger at me good naturedly.
“We won’t,” I said. It was all I could do not to make the sign of the cross.
“You can stay with James, in his room. It’s in the back.”
He lifted a lantern from the mantel and led us around the rear to a small room without a door. A bed with a straw mattress was tucked into a corner. The straw was fresh, and unlike the rest of the house, there was no mud in here. Everything else was badly burnt. Scraps of shriveled damask peeled away from the pitted wall. The bed’s headboard was charred and broken. One leg was gone, the corner propped up by a pair of bricks. A soot-stained pillow rested at the head, and beside it, a worn woolen knight doll with a missing button eye.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Dr. Parrett said.
He smiled and left. Molly immediately went for the doll. She plunked herself down on the floorboards, and soon she and the knitted knight were having a conversation about where his horse had gone.
“How did you all know where to find me?” I asked Cecily.
“We didn’t.” She huddled against me, glancing at the blackened walls. “When Tom saw the King’s Men coming, he was worried you might go back to the house. So he sent my sisters out to look for you. He asked me to arrange a place for you with Dr. Parrett.”
My battered body overcame the chill at being in James’s room, haunted or not. Slowly, I lowered myself to the straw. My back howled, then cooled to a low moan, the weight finally off it. Cecily helped me down, looking concerned.
I took stock of what was left of me. My cheek was tender and swollen where Martin had hit me. The skin on my shoulder, where my shirt had torn on the cobbles of the street, was scabbed and stinging. My finger, cut by the vial I broke in Oswyn’s office, throbbed mercilessly, though the bleeding had stopped, at least.
The cut on my finger wasn’t the most painful of my wounds—my back won that prize easily—but it was the most dangerous. Already the joint grew red and puffy, tender to the touch. If untreated, it could turn the humors of my body sour and poisonous. Fortunately, I still had my master’s sash. I tried to lift my shirt to get at it. My back didn’t like that.
“What can I do?” Cecily said.
I tugged at my shirt. “Help me pull this off.”
She did, sliding it over my head gently as I gritted my teeth. I packed the wound on my finger with spiderweb from one of the vials from the sash, and smeared aloe from another one as well. A strip torn from the bottom of my shirt made a bandage, which Cecily tied on tight. She did the same for the scrape on my shoulder. Then she sat behind me on the straw and examined my back, where the corner of the desk had rammed into me.
“It’s really red,” she said.
“Can you press on it? I need to check if anything’s broken.”
“Won’t that hurt?”
“Yes.” I sighed. “Yes, it will.”
It did. But apart from an angry red triangle the width of a melon over my spine, it didn’t appear that I’d broken anything. I was definitely in for an unpleasant few days, though. I wanted desperately to drink a bucket of poppy tea, but with the Cult of the Archangel and Lord Ashcombe both hunting me now, I was afraid to dull my mind. I pulled out the vial of willow bark and swallowed half of it instead. The bitter powder made me grimace. Beyond that, all I could do was lie down on the straw and take the pain.
• • •
Tom came at sunset, carrying a small burlap sack and a leather pouch in the same hand. He had a purple splotch on his face, the bruise already forming where his father had hit him. Molly leaped from the floor, still clutching the knight doll, and ran to her brother. “I found him!” she said proudly, pointing at me as I sat up.
“You did very well,” Tom said. He pushed his sister’s curls away from her eyes and patted her cheek.
Cecily sat next to me on the straw, her arms wrapped around her knees. “Any problems?” Tom asked her.
She shook her head. “Dr. Parrett’s very nice.”
“Can you take Molly home?”
She stood. “Of course.”
Molly handed me the knight, then threw her arms around me. It set my back to moaning again. I didn’t mind.
“Thanks for helping me,” I said to her. I waved my bandaged finger at Cecily. “And thank you, too.”
She gave me a shy smile, then put her arm around her sister and left. When they were gone, I turned to Tom. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Are you all right?”
Tom shrugged. “Father’s given me worse.”
I was more worried about Lord Ashcombe. “Will he come back for you? I saw he found my puzzle cube—”
“Lord Ashcombe doesn’t care about your puzzle cube. Here.”
Tom handed me the sack he was carrying. Inside were a pair of sticky buns. Just seeing them made me feel human again.
Tom watched me wince as I leaned against the ruined headboard. “What happened to you?” he said.
Mumbling over mouthfuls of sticky bun, I told him about the Hall, about being trapped by Martin and Wat and the Elephant while they lured Sir Edward and Oswyn away. I thought he’d be shocked, but my story barely seemed to register. I also told him about my discovery.
“Isaac has the key to the mural in the crypt,” I said.
“Oh?” Tom didn’t seem interested. He waved his hand at James’s charred bedroom. “Sorry about this. It’s the only place I could think of. I didn’t figure anyone would look for you here.”
I sat James’s woolen knight next to me on the bed. “I’m grateful to have it. Thank you.”
“The King’s Men are bound to be watching the gates out of London. Maybe, once I figure out what the patrols are like, you can sneak down to the docks and get out.” Tom handed me the leather purse.
It jingled when I took it. I pulled the drawstring open. Silver glinted in the light of the flame. I counted three shillings, and at least a dozen pennies.
I was stunned. “Where did you get these?”
“My father’s strongbox, in the bakery,” he said.
“Are you mad? Your father will kill you. I can’t take this.”
I held the purse out. Tom put his hands behind his back and stepped away. “Passage will cost a shilling at least,” he said. “More, if they think you’re desperate. One of our regular customers runs a barge. I think he could be bribed. I’ll ask him if he’ll take you.”
“Take me where?”
“I told you. Out of the city. You can’t stay here.” Tom looked into my eyes. “You do realize that, don’t you?”
“But . . . listen, I think I’ve figured it out. One of the Apothecaries’ Guild Council members, Valentine Grey, was at the Hall today. I don’t think the rest of the Council knew he was there. Then I saw him speaking to the Elephant. I think maybe he and Martin were Valentine’s apprentices. If that’s true, then Valentine’s in the Cult, too. If I tell Lord Ashcombe—”
“You can’t go to Lord Ashcombe.”
“I know I still don’t have any witnesses, but if I explain, I mean, Lord Ashcombe was there yesterday; he knows why I wanted my puzzle cube—”
“Oh, God’s truth, Christopher,” Tom huffed. “You don’t listen sometimes. Lord Ashcombe doesn’t care about your bloody puzzle cube. He thinks you’re to blame for Master Benedict’s death.”
My jaw dropped. “Me? But . . . why?”
“You were away from the shop exactly when the Cult struck. Lord Ashcombe thought that was suspicious. When he went back to look at the shop this morning, he saw the ledger page was missing. He knows you lied about what Master Benedict wrote. He’s sure there’s something incriminating on it, and you took it so no one else would see it.”
A pit grew in my stomach. “That still doesn’t explain why I would kill him.”
“He’s not sure. He thinks you might be working with the Cult of the Archangel.”
I stared at Tom. “That’s . . . that’s crazy.”
“He also suggested that maybe you just made Master Benedict’s death look like one of the Cult’s murders, so everyone would blame them instead of you. He thinks maybe you just wanted revenge for Master Benedict beating you.”
I stiffened. “He never laid a hand on me!” Then I realized: He had hit me. Once, only once. “Lady Brent,” I said.
Tom nodded. “Lord Ashcombe questioned her. She claimed Master Benedict beat you regularly. She said he was cruel to you, and you resented it. That’s why he went back to look at the shop, at the ledger page. I told him it wasn’t true, but he just thinks I’m lying to protect you.”
Master Benedict had hit me, cursed me, to keep me from Wat and the rest of the Cult. He’d played the part of cruel master well enough to save me, at least temporarily. But Wat hadn’t been the only audience. Lady Brent’s word would be enough for any court to convict me. I felt sick.
“Master Hugh,” I said suddenly. “He knows the truth. And he’s a master in the Guild. They’ll have to believe him. If we can find him, he’ll vouch for me.”
Tom stared at the floor. “Master Hugh is dead,” he said quietly.
I sat there, not moving. It was a moment before I could speak. “Wh . . . what?”
“Lord Ashcombe told me. The body buried in the garden, the one we saw on Oak Apple Day. It was Hugh’s.”
I thought the news would hit me harder. I just felt numb. Maybe it was because I couldn’t imagine anything more crushing than to be blamed for my master’s murder. Or maybe it was because deep down, some part of me already knew Hugh hadn’t left the city. That, like me, he couldn’t leave Master Benedict behind. “Then . . . the Cult did attack them Thursday night.”
“Actually,” Tom said, puzzled, “Lord Ashcombe isn’t sure it was the Cult. Hugh wasn’t cut open like the others. Also, it was a Christian grave. He was buried on hallowed ground.”
I frowned. Why would Hugh’s killers give him a Christian burial? None of this was making any sense. “I suppose he blames me for Hugh’s death, too,” I said bitterly.
“He didn’t say. He does blame you for Stubb, though.”
“What does that mean?”
Tom looked surprised. “You haven’t heard? Stubb is dead, too.”
My jaw dropped. “What?” I blinked. “He . . . he can’t be.”
“They found him in his home this afternoon. He and his apprentices were murdered, just like the rest of the Cult’s victims. The news is all over the streets. I thought you knew.”
My mind whirled.
Stubb . . . was dead?
I didn’t understand. Master Benedict. Hugh. Now Stubb?
Why would the Cult of the Archangel kill Stubb? He was in the Cult.
I thought of Wat. Martin and the Elephant had been waiting at Apothecaries’ Hall this afternoon. Wat had come from outside.
Did Wat kill Stubb? Was that where he’d been?
The murders certainly sounded like Wat’s handiwork, and the boy clearly hated the man. Was he out of control, then? Did he kill Stubb out of malice?
Or was he acting on higher orders?
I didn’t understand.
“Christopher.”
I looked up. I hadn’t even realized Tom was still speaking.
“You must see now, don’t you?” Tom said. “You have to leave London. The Cult is getting rid of everyone. The one man who can stop them thinks you’re part of it. You can’t fight them, and you can’t go to Lord Ashcombe for protection.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” I said.
“I don’t know. Find a new city. Get a new job. Any master would be lucky to have you as an apprentice.”
“A new apprenticeship would cost pounds,” I said. “And there’s no work for someone like me. You know what happens to children on the streets.” I shuddered, thinking of what would happen to Sally if she didn’t find a job, remembering the older children who’d aged out of Cripplegate. The lucky ones were still out there, begging, or cutting purses—or doing things even worse. Most just disappeared, never to be seen again.
The truth was, I had nowhere to go. Tom was just wishing. For a moment, so did I. I closed my eyes and ran away, somewhere safe, where Master Benedict was still alive. No more pain, no more death.
But that was just a wish.
“What are you going to do?” Tom said quietly.
What else could I do? “Go see Isaac. Get the key to the mural.” And trust that Master Benedict would help me find a way out.
“But . . . you can’t even walk the streets anymore. Lord Ashcombe is putting out a reward for your capture. A big one, too, five or ten pounds. Everyone in London will be looking for you.”
I ran my fingers over the vials in the sash. “I have an idea about that. You just go return these coins before your father puts you in a grave.” I handed him the purse. “And don’t come here again.”
“I’m going with you,” Tom said, surprised.
“No, you’re not,” I said. “It’s too dangerous.”
Now he looked annoyed. “You’re not my master. Don’t tell me what to do.”
“You have to work tomorrow,” I reminded him.
“My father sends me to buy flour from the market on Monday. I’m away for hours. I’ll come by after the cry of six.”
“Tom—”
He threw his arms to the heavens. “Oh, would you just stop talking for once.”
I did.
“They’re not going to take you,” Tom said. “The Cult, Lord Ashcombe . . . whoever. They’re not going to take you, too.”
Tom turned to go. He stopped at the door. “Good night, Christopher,” he said. Then he left.