Page 2 of Linenfold (The Alice Chronicles #4)

PROLOGUE

T he ooze mud of a stream at its last gasp bled out of a small split in the Thames embankment by Bermondsey where, long ago, Saviour’s Dock had been built for ships with cargo from all points of the compass.

But situated on the south bank, it proved poor competition for St Katharine’s Dock across the river, which enjoyed direct access to the city of London itself.

Over time, the boards of Saviour’s Dock rotted and the stream silted up, the constant recipient of household detritus sinking into the sludge.

Alongside, amongst the vein-like ways and alleys, the street called Shad Thames leaned towards the sucking mud as though only held back by the anchoring ribbon of cruck-built hovels along its landward side.

On this night, no light showed along the way, save for a dim glow here and there behind shutters.

The dark slop of mud in the inlet caused a coach horse to shy momentarily as it turned from Horsleydown into Shad Thames.

The coachman with a fierce cursing whisper pulled it back into line and progressed slowly, peering.

Amidst the worm-eaten dwellings, a double-fronted house with expensively jutting upper floor elbowed aside its inferiors to stand four-square, proud.

Here the coachman drew to a halt, jumping quickly down to open the coach door and assist in a hasty decamp.

While his passenger shook out his cloak and restored his plain, straight-brimmed hat, the driver scrambled back to his seat and pulled smartly away, leaving the man’s cry of dismay echoing in the night.

The passenger, now pedestrian, stood disconcerted at the fading roll of wheels.

He had assumed the man would wait the few minutes for him to complete his business.

This was not what he had been led to believe, not as it should be.

His panic, seldom far from the surface, bubbled up.

Here was a man of strict, orderly habits, ill fitted to deal with the unexpected there in the dark, in a district of London unknown to him.

As he stood vexed and anxious, the door opened.

The two figures who emerged were not what he had expected either.

At first he thought it was the darkness deceiving his eyes.

As he peered closer one of them took his arm.

If it had not been for that, elderly as he was he would have fled.

Both men wore the full-face mask of the kind sported by those attending one of the new Queen’s court entertainments, except that theirs were black.

It gave them the strangely disembodied appearance of puppets.

He barely discerned the small eye holes as they leaned with fixed faces to regard him and lifted their lanterns, dazzling his sight.

‘This way, Master Cranley.’ He felt the hold on his arm tighten, drawing him across the road, while behind him, the door closed.

The other’s footsteps followed. By the lantern light he saw ahead a slope, discerned the slick gleam of mud, smelled the low-tide stink.

Were they bringing him to a boat? Where were they taking him?

‘I am only here to collect a document,’ he protested.

The mask turned in his direction. ‘All in good time. You will do something for us first.’

No one had told him that he would be anything other than a courier. Alarm rose by the second. ‘What do you want of me?’

‘You are secretary to Lord Hardcastle, isn’t that right?’

‘Yes, you know that.’ They had told him, those who sent him, that he was here to help his lordship. To save him. Down the slope they went now, the ground softening to mud. ‘Sirs, I am not shod for this.’

‘We need you to do a little task, Cranley.’

‘Who are you?’

‘You will inform us of his lordship’s correspondence.’

‘What?’

‘You will make a fair copy of every item of correspondence his lordship receives, and of his replies and send them where we tell you.’

‘I can’t do that!’

‘You will start immediately and continue until we tell you to stop.’ The voice behind the mask was well-spoken, commanding, relentless.

‘I don’t open all his lordship’s letters. Some are sealed. They are private!’

‘We will show you how to unseal without breaking the wax. We will show you also how to re-seal.’

‘No! Please, sirs, no.’

‘And we shall randomly send him letters to ensure that you do as you are told and copy every single one.’

‘You cannot make me!’

A kick behind his knee from the other sent him sprawling on all fours, splashing into the tidal mud. As he stretched mired fingers for his toppled hat he felt the grasp on the back of his neck. His panicked struggles were of no moment to the hand forcing his face down, down. His nose touched mud.

From above him, the mask replied, ‘Oh, I think we can.’