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took bribes to bring in felons.

‘I’ve an arrangement with old Noilly at Bridewell,’ he lied.

The guard shook his head.

‘I don’t think you do,’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken to some of the other gaolers. There’s a feeling Charlie Tuesday thinks himself high and mighty. Above bringing felons to the noose.’

‘I get paid to return property,’ replied Charlie in the same easy tone. ‘What happens to the thieves isn’t my concern.’

‘Yet you could take a few pence more for sending them my way,’ suggested the turnkey. He frowned. ‘I think you know the whereabouts of a fair few guilty men.’

Charlie could see him mentally calculating his profits.

‘I’ve a feeling you’ll be staying with us a spell,’ decided the gaoler. ‘Just until we get a few names out of you.’ His hands went to the heavy bunch of keys at his hip. Charlie glanced at the door out. It looked impossibly thick.

‘I’ll give you a name now,’ he said, gauging the distance to the exit. ‘John Smith.’

The turnkey frowned. ‘Not heard of that one. What’s he guilty of?’

Charlie’s eyes slid across to John. He made the smallest of nods to the keys. John understood immediately.

‘He’s a prizefighter,’ said Charlie. ‘Wins every fight. Knocks men unconscious with a single blow.’

‘Fighting’s not a crime,’ grumbled the gaoler.

‘No,’ said Charlie, ‘but I’ve a feeling he’ll help me escape the Clink quite soon.’

The guard’s beady eyes narrowed, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard. Understanding dawned as John came at him.

The gaoler’s eyes opened wide in shock as the prizefighter’s massive fist crunched into his jaw, sending him spinning. Charlie darted forward and freed the bunch of keys in a quick movement. John’s next punch hit the gaoler’s chin, driving his head back, then a final blow drove him to the ground.

Charlie flipped the keys in his hand and raced for the door, with John behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

‘You’re losing your touch,’ said Charlie, as he and John arrived on Whitechapel Lane. ‘It took you three blows to land that turnkey.’

‘Coulda done it in one if I’d wanted,’ sniffed John. ‘I prefer to save my knuckles. He was a heavy man.’

Charlie dropped to his haunches and considered the street. Immediately he felt disappointed.

‘No cellars,’ he said, peering along the row of neat brick and wooden houses. ‘The church can’t be here.’ Charlie sucked his scarred lip. ‘I could have sworn …’

He eyed the street again, pondering. A ditch ran alongside the houses, filled with vegetable scraps and other refuse. Somewhere beneath their feet a river ran. Charlie was certain it explained the damp in Nancy’s church. But if there were no cellars, where could it be?

‘Brick Lane to the east,’ he muttered. ‘They’ll be sure to use a water source to make bricks. And there’s a brewers there who need a well.’

Charlie let his mind track the direction of the hidden river. By his best reckoning it wound near to where they stood. But there was nothing here besides neat houses.

Something about that struck him as odd.

‘We’re a stone’s throw from Brick Lane,’ he said slowly. ‘But these houses aren’t built from new London Brick. They’re made with old Roman ones.’

He pointed to the slim, worn bricks.

‘So people have dug out old Roman bricks,’ shrugged John. ‘They do it all over London.’

‘They do it near to old Roman constructions,’ corrected Charlie. ‘There’s probably a Roman sewer nearby.’

He scanned the street. His eyes flashed as he made out a tell-tale brick arch set low in the ditch. Something had occurred to him.

‘Perhaps,’ said Charlie slowly, ‘Fitzgilbert got it wrong. Perhaps Nancy made the Baptist joke, not because of the damp. But because of the location.’

‘What do you mean?’ John’s large face was scrunched in puzzlement.

‘There’s a Roman bathhouse,’ said Charlie, ‘just east of Ald Gate. It floods at high tide, so lies abandoned.’

John looked at him blankly.

‘Perhaps,’ explained Charlie, ‘Nancy was making a reference to an actual bath with her Baptist remark.’ He thought for a moment. ‘An old bathhouse might serve as a secret church,’ he added, imagining the vaulted ceilings, the ringing acoustics. ‘It’s worth a look.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

The bathhouse was a decayed structure of damp Roman brick, covered over with ivy and vegetation. A mouldering entrance door, standing slightly ajar, led into darkness.

Charlie and John squeezed past the defunct door. A stench of damp greeted them. A set of stone steps, slick and green with mould, spiralled to the stone bathroom below.

‘It does look awful narrow,’ complained John, manoeuvring his thick bulk down the precipitous entrance behind Charlie. ‘I might slip and break my neck.’

‘Go slowly,’ suggested Charlie, as he descended the final steps. A shaft of light from the doorway provided partial illumination.

The bathhouse was small. Damp cold stone arced into a low vaulted ceiling. The sides were lined with slab-like seating. At the centre was a walled pond of water ominously close to overflowing.

‘It’s cold in here,’ said John, passing down the last step and eyeing the close, dark walls. ‘I wouldn’t like to be here when it floods,’ he added, following the watermark high above their heads. ‘I’ll wager more than a few men have been trapped down here and met their deaths.’

Charlie’s gaze moved reflexively to the high door leading out.

‘We shan’t be long,’ he promised, surveying the interior. The regular ingress of water made it impossible to tell if anyone had been here recently. All trace had been washed away by the tides.

‘It’s a cistern,’ said Charlie, moving closer to the small reservoir. A droplet of water fell from the ceiling and rippled across the dark depths. ‘This must be where it links to the river,’ he added, wondering how deep it went. ‘Water rises with the tide and when it falls again, a portion is reserved in here. Clever,’ he added approvingly. John didn’t look sure.

Charlie moved further in, letting his eyes adjust to the dark.

‘It’s certainly been used as a church,’ he said, taking in a large cross etched on the ceiling. ‘But look at this.’ He touched the damp wall. Bolts had been driven into the stone. Chains and leather cuffs hung down.

John shuddered. ‘Restraints?’ he whispered. ‘For what?’

‘They perform exorcisms here,’ said Charlie, breathing out. ‘I’ve seen this before. You bind the subject while the exorcism is carried out.’

Thoughts were rearranging themselves in his head. He was remembering the shoe with the charm inside to dispel bad spirits. Nancy’s attic room.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘Nancy may have come here to be exorcised.’

There was a sound above them. Charlie’s head snapped up.

The door was closing.

He reacted instantly, racing up the slippery steps. In seconds he’d reached the head of the stair, but it was too late.

‘We’re trapped,’ he said grimly. ‘Someone wants us out of harm’s way.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Ten

The door was impenetrable. It had been blocked with something heavy.

‘It’s no good,’ said Charlie, as John threw his huge body against it in vain. ‘We can’t get any weight behind it at this angle.’

‘Then what?’ asked John.

‘It’s a busy street,’ said Charlie. ‘If we shout for long enough—’

He was interrupted by a loud sluicing sound echoing through the bathhouse. Somewhere beneath them a waterlock had been opened.

John and Charlie exchanged glances. And then the central reservoir of water began to bubble and spill out from its confines.

John attacked the trapdoor with new vigour.

‘Help!’ he shouted. ‘Help!’

Charlie watched helplessly as water streamed forth. Already it had covered the ring of stone seats.

‘It’s no good,’ he told John. ‘It will drown us in minutes.’

John turned in horror to see the water had now filled the small bathhouse up to the base of the steps. Water lapped at their feet.

‘Where has the water come from?’ he asked, open-mouthed with terror.

‘The bath must connect to some old dammed waterway,’ said Charlie, as water rose to their knees. ‘A tributary siphoned off for other use that runs through here.’

He looked up and around, taking in their options.

‘It will cover our heads soon,’ he said.

‘The ceiling curves,’ said John. ‘Perhaps there’ll be a breathing space.’

‘If there is we’ll have to swim in it for as long as it takes to be found,’ said Charlie. ‘Could be days.’

He was looking at the dark cistern.

‘There’s another way out,’ he said, pointing. ‘Through there.’

John’s eyes bulged with horror.

‘It must go somewhere,’ said Charlie reasonably. ‘Otherwise the tidal water couldn’t get in.’

Water had reached their waists.

‘It’s flowing too fast,’ said Charlie. ‘We need to wait until the water slows.’

‘You’re sure there’s something on the other side?’

‘I’m certain of it,’ lied Charlie.

John closed his eyes. The water was at their chests.

‘I’m not good underwater,’ he admitted, looking into the gloomy water rising steadily. ‘I’ll be lost and drowned in the dark. My poor Rosie will be widowed before she is even wed.’

Charlie fumbled in his leather coat, took out a dog-eared piece of string and tied it to John’s belt.

‘I won’t lose you,’ he said, tying it to his own. ‘You have my word. If we die down there, we die together.’

John nodded. But as the water reached their necks he began flailing in the water.

‘We’ll be drowned!’ he protested. ‘It comes too high!’

‘It’s slowing,’ said Charlie with more conviction than he felt. ‘A few more moments.’ His heart was pounding. The current didn’t seem to be easing off. Water lapped at their ears. They tipped up their heads, utilising the last of the air. Then beneath them, the swirling water seemed to slacken its pace.

‘Now,’ said Charlie, taking a breath. And they both plunged into the black waters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven

The cold took the breath out of him, and Charlie kicked hard, pulling John behind him. He swum towards what he hoped was the base of the cistern. But as he kicked, he lost all sense of direction and all he could see was darkness.

His fingers touched brickwork and he ranged his hands desperately over the solid wall. It was all the same. Flat narrow bricks. No change in shape. Nothing to indicate a way out. His lungs were starting to strain now.

Charlie felt for the string at his belt, where John’s bulk pulled the string taut.

That way is up, he thought, setting his inner compass by the string. This way is down.

He adjusted his search and now his fingertips hit an arch shape where the bricks formed a mouth.

An opening!

Grabbing John’s wrist, Charlie swam for the gap without checking how large it was. He felt his back touch brick, his legs hit the stonework. Then he was through, pulling John behind.

They emerged in a wide body of water and Charlie’s lungs had reached capacity. His legs slowed, starved of oxygen. He felt John flailing, panicking as