that he wouldn’t pursue the mystery. But his thief-taker instincts had always gnawed away at him. Eventually they’d driven a split between them. What if Blackstone lived? The paper seemed to suggest he’d not only survived the plague, but had built a following of Catholic boys. Fire swirled in Charlie’s mind. If Blackstone lived, then the chest his key opened could still be somewhere in London. Charlie thought of the growing fire, and his stomach turned. Flames were sweeping through the city. He needed to get to the Palace.
Chapter 15 The moment Charlie arrived at Whitehall he knew he’d been misinformed. The flag at Barbara Castlemaine’s grand apartments was raised. The King’s most famous mistress allowed no parades of women. There was no other way a commoner like Lily could get inside the Palace. Charlie eyed the hotch-potch of Palace buildings, thinking. His eye idly rested on some anti-Royalist graffiti. A naked image of the Queen, graphically suggesting she was barren because of the Pope’s illicit attentions. Something had always seemed amiss about Lily going to the Palace. Charlie replayed his conversation with the boy. The informant told the truth. Charlie was sure of it. He took out the round robin and studied it. It wasn’t yet noon. Charlie decided he had time to pursue another line of enquiry. Expensive shops with colourful carved-wood frontages were ranged opposite Whitehall. An apothecary sign swung outside one. It was the only shop whose diamond-pane windows were black with soot. As he neared, thick yellow-green smoke curled from the doorjamb. Charlie knocked, and when no answer came, opened the door to a fug of choking fumes. He squinted through the eye-watering haze. After a moment his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he made out the tall shape of Sebastian Longbody. ‘Charlie Tuesday!’ A twitching mouth was the closest thing Sebastian did to smiling. Facial expressions were bothersome with so many ideas raging. ‘Only this week I used those herbs you returned to me.’ ‘It was one of my most interesting cases,’ said Charlie. Sebastian tilted his head and squinted through the smoke. His huge eyes were yellowed and staring. A tall black hat and white collar marked him of the Quaker religion and his jet cloak was pocked with round burn holes. A shock of wild brown hair gave his skeletal frame a scarecrow air. He stood in front of a large table scarred with the burns and stains. Behind him were ranged flasks of every size and colour. ‘A moment.’ Sebastian held up his hand. Then he tipped a flask, dissipating the curling yellow smoke. Charlie approached the table. A crucible burned with embers. Smoke seized at his chest and his head swam. ‘Opium,’ explained Sebastian. ‘Smugglers are bringing huge bales from India. It is a good painkiller mixed with wine. Burning makes it better still. Don’t stand too close,’ he added, waving Charlie away. ‘It addles the mind if you aren’t used to it.’ Charlie took a judicious step backwards. ‘Your potions are still keeping you in favour with the King?’ he asked, eyeing the colourful flasks. ‘How else does a Quaker keep a shop?’ said Sebastian. ‘London is not known for religious tolerance. People say Catholics are throwing fireballs.’ ‘Catholics are blamed for the fire?’ asked Charlie. Sebastian twitched his strange smile. ‘If not the Catholics then us Quakers,’ he said, ‘and if not Quakers then the foreigners. Is that not how it is with Londoners? We must all be Protestant or burn.’ He shook his head. ‘Things are changing in England,’ he said, tapping his black hat. ‘Cromwell split religion apart.’ Charlie took the round robin out of his pocket. ‘How much do you know of alchemists?’ he asked. ‘Might their arts be used to fire the city?’ Sebastian tilted his head at the paper. ‘You wish me to discern something from this?’ Charlie nodded and Sebastian peered. ‘Why are