“And they are not just any Spanish coins. They are fifty reale pieces, a coin minted only at the order of the king, for special use. Each of them carries the royal crest and is as incriminating as any document seal. But now they are reduced to anonymous silver and my work is done.”
Owen was using a ladle to transfer some of the silver into the bullet mould. “Not quite I think, until … until you kill me. Should I be put to torture I am sure to mention the Spanish.”
Another bullet came crashing into the room, ricocheted off the brick chimney and smashed an earthenware jug. “At the moment, it seems unlikely that we will live long enough to be captured. But, in any case, there would be no advantage in killing you, though you might thank me for doing so rather than let them drag it out. There are those who know as much as you who have allowed themselves to be taken. They will no doubt speak of the Spanish when they are tied to the rack, but James will not go to war over testimony given under torture, not without physical evidence to bolster it.” He gave out a bitter laugh. “Indeed, should you recite all of this while on the rack, then it may do more good than harm. At least someone will be testifying in King Phillip’s favour.”
The men outside were getting closer, using the buildings to cover their approach around the sides of the yard. Quick let go another couple of shots, one of which brought down a man, but he knew there was to be no holding them back.
Owen had returned to stirring the silver. Indeed he seemed transfixed by it, staring with fixed eyes into the sluggish vortex, entirely oblivious to the ever increasing number of bullets flying around his head.
With his pistols loaded with silver, Quick pulled the door part-way open and looked back at his companion. “I am going to take the air, Mr Owen. Would you care to join me?”
“No thank you sir. I too have work to finish before this day is done.”
There was no time to ask what he meant. “Very well then, I wish you godspeed, Mr Owen.”
“And god bless you, sir.”
Quick pulled the door fully open with his foot and stepped out into the yard. He fired one of the pistols, took a step forwards and fired the other, before falling back dead with two balls in his chest.
As Quick’s body hit the ground, Owen was using the tip of an old scythe blade to scrape away at the hard packed dirt on the floor, scoring first one line and then another. The liquid silver spat and smoked as he poured it into the grooves. With the crucible empty, he smoothed the cooling metal with the flat of the blade. A quenching pale of water raised clouds of hissing steam, scorching the architect’s naked hands. Although still warm, he was able to lift out the casting, brushing away dirt from the underside before holding it out in front of him. The edges were rough and ready, reflecting the makeshift nature of the mould, but then he was no silversmith. Approaching the door but remaining behind cover, he looked out to see Quick’s body sprawled across the cobbles.
“I am unarmed’ he called out to the musketeers, now leaving the protection of the buildings.
“Then yield!” came the shouted reply. “Stand where you can be seen.”
Stepping outside, Owen stood over the body and for a moment watched the crimson channels of blood creeping between the cobbles. Then, reciting a prayer, he straightened Quick’s legs and arms, kissed the middle of the large silver cross and laid it across the dead man’s chest. He took a last look at his companion’s face, which now wore the peaceful mask of a death nobly earned. Guilty of the sin of envy for the first time in his life, he crossed himself and turned to confront his advancing captors.
Nicholas Owen and the powder-plot priests captured with him, were taken to the Tower of London where, like the rest of the conspirators, they were tortured. Owen’s suffering was enhanced by his disability, and he was kept alive only through the application of a military breast plate, which prevented his intestines from spilling out of his body. With no confessions extracted, all of them were dragged to their place of execution, and there hanged until almost dead, before being disembowelled and cut into quarters. In 1970, Owen was canonized by the Catholic Church, and today is regarded by magicians and escapologists as their patron saint. On his death, in the grounds of Hindslip Hall, Peter Quick, agent to his Catholic Majesty Philip III of Spain, disappeared from the pages of history, as did what came to be known as the Quicksilver Crucifix. Thanks to Quick’s efforts, England and Spain were to remain at peace with one another for over a hundred years.
The Fourth Quadrant
DOROTHY LUMLEY
Robert hefted the truncheon in his hand, feeling the warmth of the wood under his fingers. It was heavy, but then it needed to be to do this evening’s work. Inwardly he sighed. It was not work that he enjoyed, and it was not why he had joined the newly formed Metropolitan Police. But, judging from the expressions of some of the men around him, they
He cast his eyes over the police unit surrounding him. Some refused to meet his gaze. They were the nervous ones, often the youngest. Others, like him, had a set look that said: Come on, let’s get started, get it over with, then we can go home to our wives and sweethearts. But some met his gaze with a wink and a smirk. They and their sticks and cudgels would get pleasure from this night’s outing.
“All right Bob?” his friend Will, standing next to him, murmured.
“It still doesn’t seem right, breaking up a peaceable meeting, just because they’re talking about unions.”
“You’re in the Police now. Can’t take sides. Anyway, Sergeant says this ’un’s illegal.”
“Right boys, time to move forward.” Sergeant Cummings at last gave the order. Robert felt his pulse quicken. Gaslight flickered and hissed overhead — the lamplighters had already been abroad along Holborn and the Gray’s Inn Road on this damp October evening. The usual hubbub of carriages and carts and hansom cabs all fighting it out in the London street carried on. But he and the rest of his unit were about to enter a dark and unlit alley, right on the edge of a notorious Rookery.
“You six go into the yard in the back, lay into anyone who sneaks out that way.” Sergeant Cummings picked the most eager-looking men. “Rest of you, follow me. Two short blasts on the whistle and we’re in. Right, boys?”
A flicker of white caught Robert’s eye as he moved into the alley behind Will. “Feargus O’Connor of the Northern Star and Robert Owen to speak concerning the Conditions and Plight of the Working Man …The Iniquity of the New Poor Law …” — he had to move on before he could read more of the poster. That would be a legitimate meeting, one they would not be called on to break up as had been happening so many times this past year all over the country. He hoped he might be sent on that detail, he’d like to hear the two great orators speak and, as he was expected to wear his police uniform at all times, he could hardly attend in his own right.
The two short blasts on the whistle reverberated down the dark alley. Already passers-by were jostling them and jeering and trying to knock their tall hats off. Any further into the Rookery and they would be in too much danger from the lawless folk who lived there, but here he could look back and see the safety of the well-lit London street — now, though, he was running forward, and found himself yelling, along with the others, as they charged into the meeting room at the back of the White Hart.
