Elephants and Castles

By John Patrick

How can a school boy be Britain's most wanted terrorist? Thirteen-year old Elvis moves to his step-father's crumbling London home and is confronted by apparitions from the Black Death of 1665. Somehow he's got to get them back to where they came from, but in the process he catches plague himself and ends up in hospital. Soon half of London is sick and police track the illness back to Elvis's door.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Patrick
• Release date: Oct 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301002023

Book preview

Part 1

Chapter 1

Late July, this year

The helicopter thundered over the moon-lit rooftops, dodging chimneys, rattling windows and sending children scurrying to their parents' beds. Inside the chopper, Commander Stafford of MI 5 straightened his ginger moustache before dropping a helmet like a gold-fish bowl onto his head, and sealing it against the neck of his crumply, white, bio-protective suit. A mile ahead, helicopter searchlights clashed across the night sky and one old London street outshone the huge silver moon above.

Stafford checked his pistol and zipped it back into his pocket. Moments later they were hovering over Monnington Street. Below them, gas-masked soldiers poured from trucks onto flood-lit tarmac, armed policemen in bio-suits barricaded the road and flashing blue lights winked back from every window. The pilot nervously lowered his craft into the car park between the take-away shop and the newsagents. Before it could touch the ground, Commander Stafford leapt out.

'Where's the boy?' His words were swept away by the storm from the helicopter.

A man in a gas-mask pulled him to the doorway of Cooley-Tabooley's Kebab House and they waited for the chopper to lift back into the night.

'I said where's the boy?' Stafford shouted again impatiently.

'This way Sir.' They rustled onto the street and the man pointed to a crumbly old red brick house fifty yards away.

Stafford hurried towards the rusty gate and wild privet hedge of Number 28. Around him was frenzy. Men and women in green and white suits and Perspex helmets dashed between gardens and garages, emptying bins, probing under bushes, reaching beneath parked cars and dropping samples into plastic bags. Diesel generators hummed and throbbed as more floodlights were hurriedly hauled up into the sky. Above them, helicopters swarmed like wasps at a picnic, their searchlights blazing down to expose every last hidden corner of Monnington Street.

Stafford hurried to the front steps of the house.

'Good Evening Sir.' A guard pointed his gun to the floor and stepped to one side. 'The mother's in the first door on the right Sir, kid's down below.'

Downstairs, in the basement kitchen, thirteen-year-old Elvis wasn't wearing a protective suit or a helmet. He was in his usual tired tee-shirt and a torn pair of old school trousers. He was watching his distorted reflection in the visor of the man across the table. They'd both been sitting there for hours; the initial shock and tears at being arrested had long since melted away into boredom, then frustration. Elvis's battered old crutch leant against the table next to him. He checked the clock on the mantelpiece again. 11.35pm; time was running out.

'How much longer you gonna keep me here?'

The eyes behind the visor flashed anxiously back at him but the man said nothing.

'What am I supposed to have done? You can't just keep me sitting here all night.' Elvis stood up.

'Sit down! Now!' The man seized his arm and pointed a gloved finger at the chair. 'You know what you done. Commander Stafford will be 'ere in a minute. He'll sort you out.'

'Sort me out? Sort me out about what?'

He didn't receive a reply. Elvis shuffled nervously in his seat and glanced at the clock again.

Moments later, the door flew open. Commander Stafford charged into the kitchen. ‘Where is he? Is that him? Is that... it?'

'Yes Sir. That's Elvis Klatzmann Sir.' He barked, jumping to his feet.

'Blow me down. He doesn't look much, does he?'

'No Sir. He doesn't Sir.'

'Still, never judge a book by its cover. They're cunning these terrorists, you know. '

'Yes Sir, they are Sir.'

'Just think... what was your name?'

'Tompkins Sir, Kevin Tompkins.'

'Just think Tompkins, one day when you're old and grey, you'll be able to tell your grandchildren how you took part in Britain's biggest anti-terrorist operation since Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament. When they're burning effigies of Elvis Klatzmann, you'll be able to tell them how you sat guard over him the night that Commander George Stafford saved London! Think about that!'

'Wow, Sir!' The young man's eyes grew as wide as saucers.

'Well done young man, I won't forget this. Now I must question him alone. You're dismissed!'

The man didn't need telling twice; he almost ran from the kitchen.

'Who are you?' asked Elvis uneasily, 'What are you doing here?'

'Who am I? I'll tell you who I am! I am you're worst nightmare, boy, that's who I am.' Stafford strutted around Elvis inspecting his every angle. 'The name is Stafford, MI5.' He bent over and pushed his mask directly in front of Elvis's face, his ginger moustache bristling against the inside of the glass. 'Anti-terrorist division.' he added with a whisper.

'But... why? What's going on?'

'Don't play dumb boy. You've been caught red-handed! We know your game!'

'Game? I haven't got a game! What am I supposed to have done?'

'What have you done? Stafford laughed then fired his cold, green-eyed gaze back at Elvis. 'I'll tell you what you've done boy. You've terrorised the whole country, that's what you've done. You've closed down every airport in Europe, you've sent half of London fleeing for cover, you've filled every hospital emergency department in this city and you've brought down the wrath of the entire British Government on your head. That's what you've done!'

'That's crazy! I haven't done anything!'

'Is that a fact?'

Stafford picked up the remote control and aimed it at the television.

'BREAKING NEWS' flashed across the screen in red. An excited newscaster was clutching a sheet of paper. He read the words at a gallop. 'Now we're getting more information about the astonishing news from North London. Police have confirmed they have uncovered a major terrorist plot involving the large scale release of a biological agent. The pictures you're seeing now are live from our helicopter at the scene where a mass evacuation is under way.'

The image was of a city by night. Every street was a river of car headlights, stretching far into the distance.

'What... does that prove?' asked Elvis meekly.

The camera zoomed into a brightly lit street in the centre of the picture. One building stood out, lit up by brilliant white light, surrounded by dozens of flashing police cars and military vehicles. There could be no doubt; the weather-beaten brick house with bulging walls and sagging roof, the old stone church across the road, the two old buildings, islands amongst the new glass-fronted shops and boxy concrete flats. The street was Monnington Street, the house was his house.

'All buildings inside the exclusion zone are being evacuated. I repeat a compulsory evacuation is under way for everybody inside the red line on this map. You must leave immediately! Now police say the mastermind of the plot...'

'Here we go!' said Stafford, turning up the volume.

'... is believed to be this person, Elvis Klatzmann.' Elvis’s picture appeared on the TV, smiling in school uniform, hair neatly brushed. Elvis's jaw fell open. 'Police are working quickly to identify his accomplices.' The TV picture returned to Monnington Street. On the front garden of Number 28, an enormous sheet of white plastic was being pulled towards the house. It was hooked onto the arm of a crane then dragged onto the roof. Gas-masked men hauled on ropes until the cover was draped down the all sides of the old building and fastened to the ground. The light faded from the kitchen window. The house was completely enclosed, wrapped-up like a chocolate bar.

Stafford's mobile rang. 'Yes Sir, of course Sir. Well you can reassure the President that we have this whole thing under control. I have the mastermind right here in my hand Sir. I'm questioning him as we speak. Of course Sir. I'd be happy to talk to the President if you... No, sorry Sir... Yes Prime Minister, I'll keep you informed.' Stafford pushed his 'phone back into his pocket. He looked at Elvis and shook his head. 'You ever heard of a place called Guantanamo Bay, Elvis?'

Elvis shrugged.

'No? No? Well you damn-well should boy, because you're going to be spending a hell of a lot of time there! And you know what?' The glass inside his helmet fogged as he roared at Elvis. 'It's the worst place on earth Elvis! The very worst - a place made especially for the likes of you! A place where anything goes, so long as it gets the job done. And I mean anything! Now either you can tell me the truth boy, or you'll be on the next plane to Cuba and they can damn-well torture it out of you. The choice is yours.'

'But this is crazy! You've got...You've got...' Elvis scrambled to remember what the crooks said on TV when they'd been arrested.. 'You got nothing on me!'

'Is that right? Well why don't we look at the facts, then, eh? Over the last month you ask your doctor about plague, you ask your history teacher about plague, you ask Google 600 times about plague. You have a notebook full of information about it, you have a box full of drugs to treat it and then, lo and behold, what happens next? Any guesses? Want to win a prize? No, you don't need to guess, do you? Because you know what happened next! Yes, you only go and catch the bloody disease and kick off the first outbreak of plague in England in a hundred years! Coincidence? Course it is! And what else? Oh yes, you hang around with terrorist suspects. Strange? And what's this?' Stafford reached to the kitchen cabinet and grabbed a handful of white envelopes and a pack of postage stamps and threw them across the table. 'Is this what you used to send plague around London? Is it?Is this how you spread your foul poison? Posted it out to all those poor bastards who got sick? Was it? You’d better start talking damned quick boy! Guantanamo Bay has room for one more!'

Elvis’s heart was pounding, his hands were trembling. How could this man be serious? How could anyone think he, Elvis, the scrawny kid who gets pushed around at school, the boy who needs a crutch to walk more than a few yards, how could he be any sort of terrorist?

'Terrorist suspects?'

'What?' snapped Stafford.

'Before, you said I’d been hanging around with terrorist suspects. Who were you talking about?'

'Like you don't know!'

'I don't!'

'You know a Master Alan Singh...'

'Well, yeh, he’s a mate of mine...'

'And Henry...I can't say his other name, that medical student.'

'Well, yeh, but he's no...'

'And Amelia Evans'

'Amelia? I don’t ...know any Amelia.' Elvis replied unconvincingly.

Stafford pulled a mobile 'phone from his pocket. He pressed a button, lit up the screen and tossed it on to the table in front of Elvis. A girls face smiled back through the screen. 'Who's that then?'

Elvis blushed.

'There's at least half a dozen more pictures of her on that thing.'

'That doesn’t mean…'

'You’ve got a lot to tell young man.'

The kitchen door rattled. 'I don’t care!' The voice was shrill and piercing. 'I’m going to see my baby!'

Elvis’s mother, Monica, burst into the kitchen, her hair wild, clothes ruffled, she was gasping for breath.

'Elvis! Sweetheart! What have they done to you?'

'I'm sorry Sir. She pushed past me. 'The guard explained sheepishly. 'I didn't... want to hurt her.'

Stafford stepped in front of Monica. 'What do you think you're doing, woman? I am in the middle of an interrogation! '

Monica shoved him out of the way. 'You’re not interrogating my son! I'm his mother... that’s my job.' She grabbed Elvis and squeezed him tightly. 'You’ll tell me everything. Won’t you sweetie?'

'Yes mum.' Elvis gasped. But where to begin? And the time was slipping away. 11.48pm.

Chapter 2

1660's London

These Blazing Stars!

Threaten the World with Famine, Plague and Wars:

To Princes Death: to Kingdoms many Crosses:

To all Estates, inevitable Losses:

To Herds-men, Rot; to Ploughmen, hapless Seasons:

To Sailors, Storms; to Cities Civil Treasons.

John Gadbuy, De Cometis, 1665

The winter of 1664-1665 felt like it would never end. The frost bit hard and deep, killing young and old in their beds, and turning the River Thames into a mass of brilliant white ice. But as if the cold wasn’t bad enough, when darkness fell, as families huddled together to fend off the lethal winter chill and the frozen river sparkled in the crisp moonlight, a comet streaked across the night sky. A comet meant just one thing; no matter how vicious the winter had been, no matter how many lives had been taken by the savage cold, worse would follow; much worse. But what form would it take? War? Fire? Flood? Pestilence? There were so many things that frightened seventeenth century Londoners, it was hard to know; the Devil, God, consumption, war with the Dutch, war with the French, the Scots, with each other. But there was one particular fear that held a special dark place in their souls. And that was plague - the terrifying Black Death.

Plague had stalked the people of England for as long as anyone could remember. It lurked in the shadows of the rat-infested alleyways and haunted the filthy, overcrowded slums of the poor. From time to time it would emerge from the darkness to claim another life. It would brand them with hideous black skin sores that foretold of the suffering and death that would surely follow. Mostly it would satisfy itself with just the occasional poor soul, but when the urge took hold, the Black Death would erupt with an evil fury. It would rampage across town and country and slaughter all that it touched, rich or poor.

In the last few years whispered stories of outbreaks in Spain and Holland had sparked fear again in London. Conversations bristled with nervous talk of corpses piling up too quickly for the living to bury, of whole towns wiped from the map.

But for all the chatter, nothing much had happened in London. Sure there was the odd case, and every time the word plague appeared on the local death registers anxieties rose. But there'd been no real outbreaks, not yet. People started to relax again. Life went on.

'God is punishing the people of Europe for their evil ways!' they warned from the pulpits 'Watch your own house with care!'

So far, God had chosen to spare the English.

But Londoners knew they were no saints.

Then came reports of Black Death in Drury Lane. Foreigners, French or Dutch they said. Then more cases nearby. People began to get scared. Londoners started avoiding that end of town. The weekly death lists were scrutinised. As the icy winter started to thaw, rumours gathered strength; deaths were on the increase. More clusters were appearing. People began to flee the city. Parents scoured their children for the tell-tale black marks. They began to hoard, stockpile and make ready to hide themselves away. As more cases followed, fear grew to panic, people became desperate. They searched for guidance and help from anywhere. Churches overflowed into the streets, fortune-tellers, magicians, wizards, quacks and surgeons appeared all over the city. People devised potions and brews to keep the disease at bay, many deadly as the illness itself.

For the wealthy, there was but one answer. Pack up and move to the country. For their servants, the desperate hope was that they would be taken along with their masters and avoid the fate of their fellow Londoners.

For the poor though there was no escape. And little did they know that plans were afoot for when the time came, when plague was at the peak of its evil fury, dragging soul after sorry soul into the stinking burial pits, to imprison them in their slums, to lock them up to face their nightmare unaided and alone.

But then just as it looked to have started, the weather turned cool and it went quiet again. The kindling was still too damp to ignite. People went on with their business.

But May turned to June and the weather went from cool to hot.

And that’s when it really began.

Chapter 3

Summer 1665

Ten year-old Samuel slouched against the gatepost of 28 Monnington Street. He knew he should be going about his work but the day was hot and packing was tedious.

'We should be gettin' back inside Sam.' his older sister Mary grumbled. As servants' children, she knew that they were lucky to be employed alongside their parents. She also knew it was a privilege that could very easily be taken away.

They'd been stood idly at the front of the house for almost half an hour, watching carriage after carriage rumble by. They'd never seen traffic like it. There was no break between them; one after another they rattled past the house, each one groaning under the weight of passengers and crates, their drivers shouting at each other and jostling for position. Pale, nervous faces peered out from carriage windows whilst servants clung on amongst the luggage on the roof. The breathless summer air was ripe with the sweet smell of horse manure and alive with swarms of frantic black flies zipping between swiping tails and slapping hands. It seemed that the whole of London had packed its bags and was leaving for the country.

Samuel pulled his catapult from the back of his trousers and looked at Mary with a smirk. He knew how to break the boredom.

'No Sam, you mustn’t!' But the twinkle in Mary's eye said something different.

Samuel knelt down behind the wall. He waited until a carriage was right in front of the house, pulled back the strap; and fired.

'Shit!' Samuel hissed, dropping the catapult to the floor and shaking his hand. 'I shot me friggin' finger!'

Mary fell to the ground giggling. 'Your ‘opeless Sam, give it ‘ere!' Mary grabbed the weapon from his hand. She glanced back towards the house to make sure they hadn't been spotted. In a moment she'd sneak back into the kitchen before anyone even missed them. She peeked over the wall and took aim at a passing carriage. She drew back on the strap; then hesitated.

'Go on you chicken, fire!' urged Samuel.

'I will, I will!' replied Mary, beginning to wish she hadn’t been so bold. She aimed again.

'Mary Young!' The voice screeched behind her. 'What the ‘ell are you doin’ girl?'

Mary knew the shrill, angry voice of Miss Pewtersmith, the plump, short-tempered cook, all too well. Her heart jumped, her knees went weak and her grip loosened. The stone slipped from her fingers and took flight, hurtling straight as an arrow until it slapped into the rump of a horse pulling a fine red carriage. The horse screeched. Mary glanced back to see Miss Pewtersmith standing on the house steps, arms in the air and mouth gaping. Back on the road, the animal reared up and began to bolt. The carriage lurched forward; a coffin-sized trunk tumbled from the back and exploded across the road. Boxes and cases tumbled after it; the servants clung on for their lives as the carriage took flight. A wall of traffic blocked the horse's path, but the beast charged on, smashing into a rickety wooden cart. Wood cracked and splintered, the wheels fell away and a small wagon with family atop collapsed to the floor. The horse came to a panting halt. The driver of the red carriage jumped down and calmed his animal. When he finally satisfied himself that his horse was unhurt, he turned to deal with Mary. He stormed over the broken cart towards Number 28.

Mary’s gaze darted between the angry driver and the horrified Miss Pewtersmith behind. Samuel was still sniggering.

'Samuel you bloody idiot! What we gonna do now? You’re gonna get us both killed!'

'Don’t blame me Mary! You fired it!'

The door of the carriage swung open and a man’s head poked out. 'Andrews, Andrews, what are you doing man? Forget them! Just get us out of here for heaven’s sake!'

The driver hesitated for a moment, glaring at the children. How he would love to give them what they deserved. But this was no time to be risking his job. He gritted his teeth and turned away.

Mary jumped up and tried to run but Miss Pewtersmith was already on her. Her pudgy hand reached down and grabbed her ear. Mary squealed but there was no escape. With her other hand she grabbed hold of Samuel’s mousy hair and dragged them both to the house.

'Wait 'til the master 'ears about this! You wait! You’ll be for it. Be out on your ears, all o' ya! You mark my words. Serve ya bloody right it will! Lazy good for nothing trash the 'ole bloody lot o’ ya!'

She hauled them up the stone steps to the main door of the house.

The house stood at the end house of a fine terrace of modern brick homes, each one fronted by neat a hedge and garden. At the side of number 28, a gravel drive lead down a gentle incline to a small stable for housing horse and carriage. Not counting the attic, the home boasted two storeys at the front and three at the back by virtue of the slope, allowing room for a basement kitchen that opened onto the drive.

The cook dragged the two children through the front door into a hallway stacked with wooden trunks and bulging bags. Furniture and pictures were hidden under white cotton sheets. A slender white cat lay on top of a pile of cases, spying them through one lazy eye. Miss Pewtersmith dragged the pair to the drawing room door. Muffled voices came from beyond.

'Stand ‘ere!' the cook barked. She tapped gently on the door, cleared her throat and waited. There was no response. She tapped, again, a little harder then gently eased open the door. Inside the drawing room, the master of the house, Mister William Jarvis, stood with his manservant pointing at more trunks, crates, piles of clothes, crockery, pots, jugs and, it seemed, the entire contents of the house. He was sweating, his hair and clothes unusually unkempt.

'We can’t possibly take all of this Lancaster. We must be more selective. Get some of these pots and plates taken back to the…'

Miss Pewtersmith coughed gently and waited, head bowed.

'What…what is it? What now?' Jarvis grumbled, not bothering to turn his head.

'Sir, I found these two urchins causing terrible trouble, they was….'

'What? I’ve no time for this now Miss Pewtersmith. Go about your duties. Go on now.' He continued ticking off the list in his hand.

'But Sir, they was…'

'For heaven’s sake!' He slammed the piece of paper onto the drawing room desk. 'Go away, right now Miss Pewtersmith. I don’t...I don't expect to be questioned in my own home.' he stammered. 'Is that clear? Find them... some chores or something. God knows there’s enough around here to be done.'

Miss Pewtersmith shrivelled. She backed out of the door. 'Yes Sir, most sorry Sir.' She closed the door gently behind her and then turned on Mary and Samuel.

'You little barstards! Serve ya right if the 'ole bloody lots o' yers got plague! I 'ope 'e leaves y'all be'ind while we goes to the country!' She shook a chubby fist in the direction of Mary. 'Where's that useless mother of yours? If she don't thrash yer I'll do it me bloody self, I tell yer!' She thrust a hand into each of their backs and shoved them towards the basement kitchen stairs. 'And then yer can scrub that kitchen floor 'til it's spotless!'

They were marched down a narrow flight of stone stairs to the kitchen. The tables and benches would usually be spotlessly clean and organised but today there was clutter everywhere. The floor was covered with a maze of crates and cases, even the iron cooking range was hidden behind a tower of boxes.

'Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Where are ya?' screamed Miss Pewtersmith. 'Elizabeth!'

The children's mother came out of the pantry, dusting flour from her skirt. 'Is there a problem Miss Pewtersmith?'

'Problem! I should say there's a bloody problem!' Her face glowed scarlet as she spat the words out. 'These two urchins of yours was tryin' to kill people they was! Shootin' at carriage drivers an' horses. Caused a big smash, wrecked a bloody carriage! Who's gonna pay fer that? You? They need a damn good floggin' they do! An' if you don't do it, I’ll do it me bloody self!'

'Thank you Miss Pewtersmith. I’ll deal with them, I assure you.' Elizabeth ushered the children into the large walk-in pantry and closed the door. 'What on earth are you two doing?' she snapped.

'We were just watching the carriages leavin'...' Samuel started.

'Just watching! What do you mean just watching? What about your work? Look at you both, ten and thirteen years old and acting like street urchins - and today of all days! You’re both grown-up now, so start acting like it!' She took a deep breath and composed herself. 'Come on, we’ve got to show Mister Jarvis that he should take us with ‘im. We mustn’t get left behind ‘ere.' She licked her fingers and smoothed down Samuel’s hair. He recoiled. 'Mary, go find your sister, she’s with Ann from the kitchen next door, and Samuel, go out to your father, carry luggage and make sure you're seen, work hard. Go on now both of you.' She opened the door and waved them out.

Elizabeth's husband, James, came inside from loading the carriage. He was a tall, gaunt man, dressed in work clothes and black boots. 'Lizzie, he wants to speak to us now, in the drawing room.'

Elizabeth felt her heart quicken. This would be the news they'd been awaiting. Two weeks earlier Mister Jarvis had announced his intention to flee London, just as soon as he could get his affairs in order. Ever since, they’d been waiting nervously, not daring to ask if they’d be going with him and escaping the plague.

Elizabeth followed her husband silently up the dark stone staircase to the main house. When they arrived at the drawing room, the door was open and Mister Jarvis was still struggling to decide what to leave behind. James and Elizabeth stood quietly at the door and waited to be noticed.

'Oh, there you are! Come in. Take a seat.' He pointed to the sofa. Elizabeth and James were taken aback. They looked at each other hesitantly. 'Sit, sit!' encouraged Mister Jarvis. 'Lancaster you may leave.'

Miss Pewtersmith was sitting at the kitchen table wrapping provisions. Samuel trudged in and out lugging boxes and making faces behind her back. He lifted another crate from the corner of the kitchen. Half a dozen mice scurried away. Samuel stamped a foot and trapped one by the tail. He looked back at Miss Pewtersmith making herself busy at the table. This was his chance for revenge. He crouched down and cradled the mouse into one hand before creeping silently behind the cook. He gently placed the little rodent onto the back of her dress then kept on walking. Miss Pewtersmith was still wrapping. She wriggled a bit, had a scratch at her back then carried on with her work. But then the mouse found a route down the back of her clothing and burrowed its way between her shoulder blades. She jumped up and screamed. She writhed and wriggled, shoving both her arms into her clothes. Samuel couldn't hold it in; he erupted into a fit of giggles. The mouse finally found an escape from Miss Pewtersmith's dress, shinned down her leg and ran away to safety. The cook turned to Samuel with a vicious scowl.

Samuel backed towards the door still sniggering.

'You evil little rat!' She charged after him and slammed the door shut before Samuel had a chance to get through it. She seized him by the back of his neck. 'You’ve gone too bloody far this time! Too bloody far!'

She opened the door to the stairs and threw him upwards. He fell against the steps and tried to scramble away but she grabbed him again by his shirt. She hauled him up the stairs and pushed him across the hallway until they were stood once again outside the drawing room door. She stopped, brushed down her pinafore and straightened her hair. 'This time I’m gonna make sure ‘e knows what you lot are like. You ain't gettin' away with it again. Not this time boy. I want you an' your family sacked an' out o' this 'ouse.' She took a deep breath and raised her hand. She was about to tap when she noticed the door was slightly ajar. Soft voices leaked out through the crack. Miss Pewtersmith pressed her chubby face to opening.

Mister Jarvis was stood in front of the fireplace and before him, sitting on the sofa were James and Elizabeth. Servants sitting whilst the master stood! What was this? Miss Pewtersmith was stunned. Favouritism! It must be! She cursed silently and eased the door open a fraction more. Elizabeth sat with her head bowed, face buried deep into her hands. James was sat facing away from her.

'Look,' said Mister Jarvis with a tremble in his voice that Miss Pewtersmith hadn't heard before, 'we can’t all fit in the carriage. That's a fact. And someone needs to stay here and look after this place. I'm putting all my trust in you. You have the run of this house ‘til I return. It’s a great responsibility. I'll pay you good money to be here and I've spoken to my physician. I've asked him to provide you with medicine and advice whenever you need it.'

'Please Mister. Jarvis, we can work for no pay, we could sleep in the barn.' pleaded Elizabeth.

James sat in silence, his despondent face pointed to the floor.

William Jarvis looked down at his two staff members. He'd known them for many years, since before the birth of their children. He'd meant to speak to them a long time ago but hadn’t quite found the time or courage. Now when he was about to leave and had no option, he had finally steeled himself. But it was no easier than he’d expected.

'Look, you keep yourselves locked in here, keep others out, take the physic and you'll be fine.'

'If you can’t take us Sir, take our children. They'll be no trouble. Mary and Samuel are strong workers now, and they’ll care for their young sister. They are old enough now. An' if we're gone when you get back they could take our place. They can raise young Alice to work for you too Sir.'

'Elizabeth, your children need you, this is no time for a family to be split.'

Elizabeth sank to her knees and reached for his hand.

Jarvis shrank back. And anyway, he'd made up his mind and this was no time to back down. He pulled his hand away and clenched his fists behind his back. He returned to his script. 'The children will stay with you here. James, I will show you my pistols and my sword in case you need them. You may order whatever provisions you need for the house and yourselves on my account, or if that fails, use this.' He handed James a small leather purse. 'But I want all of it accounted for when I return. Have nobody else stay in this house while I'm away. Nobody.' Much as he was trying to be cold and distant, Jarvis could hear the weakness in his own voice, and to his annoyance, his eyes were starting to fill.

'Thank you Sir.' James whispered as he took the purse.

'But Mister Jarvis...' Elizabeth started again.

'That's all.' Jarvis turned and walked briskly out of the room, pushing past Miss Pewtersmith and Samuel in the doorway without a glance.

Miss Pewtersmith gave Samuel a toothless grin. 'Ha, that's justice, that's what that is! 'E knows what you're like! You'll be stayin’ 'ere. God'll be punishing you, boy. You and your family are gonna pay while we’ll be living it up in the country. Ha!' She released his shirt and walked away with a broad smile across her round face.

Chapter 4

Time was getting on. Mister Jarvis's departure was already later than he'd planned and if he didn’t go soon he'd have to be delay another day. Finally they loaded the last few pieces on the carriage.

'Let’s go, let’s go!' demanded Jarvis. 'Where is that cook? Samuel, go and tell her to come here right now! We leave at once.'

Samuel ran off to search. He found her having a final snack of scones and bread in the pantry.

'Don’t want to waste this on you lot!' she spat crumbs at Samuel as she spoke. 'Too good for the likes o' you!'

Samuel swept the food crumbs away from his face. 'Mister Jarvis sent me, says it’s time to go.'

'Right then,' replied Miss Pewtersmith, wrapping the rest of the scones in a cloth for the trip. 'I’ll be leaving you 'ere then.' She looked at Samuel and smirked. 'You know, I ‘ear that Black Death is ‘orrible way to die. Real painful, real messy.'

'Is it? Well... well Mister Jarvis says you ain’t got enough supplies yet. Says you gotta get more stuff before you leave.'

'What? Rubbish! I bought enough provisions to take ‘alf the parish with us. Why do we need more? Where we gonna fit it?'

Samuel shrugged. ''E said it.'

'What's 'e want?'

'Oh, er flour, salted meat an'... stuff.'

'But we got all that! I’ll go speak to him.'

‘Oh, I wouldn't. 'E’s very angry. 'E was saying 'e'll get a new cook if this one won’t do what she's told. I ain't never seen him so mad.'

'Oh, I see.' She paused for a moment. 'Right then, tell him... tell him... tell him I’ll be as fast as I can and get all the provisions I can 'old. You come an' 'elp me carry ‘em.'

'If you like, but Mister Jarvis says I’m supposed to be 'elping him...but I’ll just tell him you said I can’t.'

'Oh no, no! You go back to him then. I’ll be quick as lightening. You tell him. '

Samuel dashed back to the carriage outside.

'Where is she Samuel? What is she doing for heaven’s sake?'

'She won't come Sir. Said she’d changed ‘er mind. Said she couldn’t leave 'er family behind Sir.'

'No, can’t be. She was pleased as punch when I told her to come. Surely not!'

'Yes Sir. Look Sir.' Samuel pointed across the street. Through a gap in the horses and traffic was Miss Pewtersmith, walking as briskly as her stout legs would carry her away from the house.

'Well I’ll be! Well, that’s it then. We have no more time to waste. All aboard! Let’s go!'

James opened the gate for the carriage and the driver rattled the reins. The carriage rumbled forward, its frame groaning under the weight of luggage.

'Goodbye and good luck James.' Jarvis reached out of the carriage and shook James' hand. 'May God protect you.' They pushed their way out into the heavy flow of traffic. 'I thought Miss Pewtersmith had no family.' mused Jarvis.

At the side of the house was a small window, not much bigger than a man’s head, a lattice of lead divided it into diamond-shaped panes. Behind it was the face of Elizabeth, pale and red-eyed. Her right hand clutched tightly onto the crucifix around her neck. She mumbled the words 'God have mercy on us' as she watched them go.

Chapter 5

Samuel and Mary raced up the fine oak staircase. Their two year old sister, Alice, climbed slowly behind.

'I’m having this room!' declared Samuel, winning the race to the guest room overlooking the street. He dived head first onto the four-poster double bed and sank into the deep covers. The cat sprinted from out from underneath.

'That’s not fair!' protested Mary, I’m older than you! I should choose!'

'You’ll ‘ave to fight me for it!' shouted Samuel and knelt up on the bed holding both fists out towards his sister.

Mary shook her head.

Alice made it to the top of stairs. She found a box of candles and happily posted them between the banister rails, listening for the breaking sound as they hit the floor below.

'Fancy Miss Pewtersmith changing her mind like that!' said Mary, 'Who would believe it?'

Samuel smirked. 'Yeh, fancy!'

'Sam… Samuel, you didn’t... you didn't play one of your tricks on her? You didn’t, did you?'

The smirk broke into a broad grin.

'Oh no! You did, didn’t you?'

Samuel nodded. 'I just said Mister Jarvis wanted some more stuff an' if she didn't get it he'd sack 'er!'

'She’ll kill you if she finds out Samuel! I mean it, she will!' Mary was laughing but then the humour drained from her face. 'An’ you know what else you’ve done, you bloody idiot? You’ve kept ‘er ‘ere - with us! We would ‘ave got rid of ‘er and you stopped ‘er leaving! You stupid ass!' Mary picked up a book from the side of the bed and hurled it at Samuel.

'Serves 'er right any'ow!' gloated Samuel.

'But what if Dad tells 'er that's not true. She'll go loopy! You’ll get a hell of a floggin’... an’ prob’ly me too!' She walked across to the window and looked at the busy street below. 'We gotta get down and meet her before she gets back. She can’t find out what you did.'

In the drawing room Elizabeth heard none of the noise. She stared out of the window at the wealthy and powerful as they escaped the gathering dark clouds. On the sideboard next to her was the bottle of potion left by Mister. Jarvis. It lay on its side empty. James walked behind his wife and stretched his long spindly fingers around her waist, squeezing her tightly against his body.

'What’s to come of us James? What’s going to happen to Mary and Samuel, and little Alice?'

'We’ll get what we need then I'll seal every door and every window in this house. No one will come in and no one will leave 'til this is over. We’ll be all right. God will protect us.' He squeezed her again.

Mary broke his grip and turned to look at his pale and haggard face. 'You really believe that James? You really think we can live through this?'

'I’ll make sure we do. I have Mister Jarvis’s weapons. If anyone tries to bring that infection in here then they won’t last long. I’ll do whatever I need to do to keep us safe Lizzie. We'll get through this; you mark my words we will. We’ll hide ourselves away 'til this whole thing’s over then come out like squirrels in the spring.' He forced a smile.

Elizabeth bit her lip and looked enviously at the departing traffic.

Samuel and Mary stood at the roadside awaiting the cook’s return.

'You’ve done it this time Samuel, you really have.' Mary shook her head in disbelief. 'She’ll be so angry if she knows what you did. She’ll flog you to death she will.'

After ten minutes Miss Pewtersmith appeared down the street, struggling with a sack of flour over one shoulder and a bulky paper-wrapped package under the other arm.

'Come on! We got to speak to her before she goes inside.' They walked hurriedly to meet her.

''Ere, 'elp me with this child!' Miss Pewtersmith shoved the package into Mary’s arms. 'An' you boy, take this.' She leant forward and allowed the sack of flour to fall onto Samuel. His knees buckled under the weight and he crumpled to the floor. 'Oh thank God for that. They weigh a ton. Come on, ‘urry 'up. Let's get these loaded up. We don't wanna keep 'im waitin'. You need to build some muscles boy.' She marched on towards the house.

'Miss. Pewtersmith, 'ang on …' Mary’s voice trembled, 'It’s….it’s the Master, Miss Pewtersmith, 'e wouldn’t wait. He…'e said you was too long. Said 'e’d ... have to find another cook in the country. I’m sorry Miss P.'

Her bright red cheeks drained in an instant. She stared open mouthed at Mary. 'No, no, can’t be! I was real quick. I ran half the way I did!'

She dashed to the gate, now closed and locked. She held onto the iron bars and gawked through in disbelief. No horse, no carriage, no master of the house. She let out a piercing wail and ran on to the street. The traffic was heavy but only moving at brisk a walking pace. She ran alongside the carriages, calling for Mister Jarvis, for Lancaster. She peered in through carriage windows but all she saw were bemused, unfamiliar faces. Miss Pewtersmith wasn’t built for running and after fifty yards or so she could go no further. Dejected and gasping for breath she collapsed at the roadside. Now she too was stuck in the city, to face whatever God decided to send.

James called Mary and Samuel into the drawing room. There was an urgency in his voice. 'I need you to run some errands. We need enough food to lock ourselves away in this house for months.'

'But Dad, Miss P has come back. She's brought more stuff. It’s downstairs.' Samuel wasn’t keen on the idea of carting supplies in the hot sun.

'We could be locked up in here for a long time Samuel. We need all we can get.' He rubbed the top of Samuel's head fondly. 'Mary, go to Mister Wiseman’s and show him this list.' He handed Mary a list of supplies drawn up by Jarvis before he left. 'And if the credit is no good use this.' He passed her the small leather purse. 'Only use it if you’ve got absolutely no choice. It’s all we've got. Look after it well.'

Mary nodded then pushed the purse firmly into her pinafore pocket.

'Samuel you go too.' James wrapped an arm around each of them and pulled them in. 'Don’t linger. Get what we need and get straight back here. Whatever you do, keep away from anyone who is sick. Do you hear me? Keep well away.'

They both nodded.

'When you're back we'll lock this place up like a fortress. We'll be snug and safe in here until it's all over. Now be quick.'

Mary and Samuel darted along the street, dodging between pedestrians, pushing past bystanders, nipping between horses and carriages. Howls of complaint followed them. They rounded a corner into Market Street. Samuel had to pause for breath; it was hard work in the summer heat.

Mary walked back to him, hands on hips, sucking in the hot afternoon air. 'Can’t keep up, eh?'

'Faster than you!' puffed Samuel. 'You run like a...three-legged donkey.'

'What? I can out-run you any day!'

'You think you can.'

'Right then, I’ll race ya and prove it! Come on!'

Samuel was still bent over, hands rested on thighs, as Mary sprinted away.

'Wait! I wasn’t ready!'

'Come on slow coach!'

Mary was still gloating over her shoulder at Samuel as she took off. She didn’t notice the tall dark figure ahead of her until she crashed into him, bounced off and landed on her back on the road.

'Stupid girl!'

Mary looked up at a bearded face scowling down on her.

'You should take more care who you run into you.' The man swept his oily, shoulder-length black hair away from his face.

'I’m sorry, Sir.' pleaded Mary. 'I was in a hurry, running errands.' As she spoke she felt the pocket of her dress for the purse. It was gone. 'Samuel, Samuel! The money! I’ve lost it!' She span around desperately searching the ground for the leather purse. 'Samuel, quick!'

'Are you looking for this?'

The man tapped his leather boot. Beneath it was the purse. Mary lunged forwards to grab it.

'Oh thank you sir.'

He kept his weight firmly on the purse. Mary tugged on the string.

'Please Sir, it’s mine, for my errands.'

He crouched down and spoke with his face inches from Mary's. 'I can do more for you with this than any shopkeeper can, my dear.' His breath reeked of decaying teeth and stale alcohol. He seized the purse and jumped to his feet. 'The name is Thomas Shipton, the last in a long line of great prophets!' he announced, swinging his arm out towards the house behind him. On the door hung a wooden sign with a crudely carved picture of a hag-like woman sitting at table. 'I am the finest and truest of all the Tellers in London. Only I can tell if you will live through this terrible time!'

'Please Sir, just my purse!'

'Wait girl!' he snapped and then went on. 'And if by chance we find that fate has cruel plans in store for you, only I can give you…no sell you...the trinkets to ward off evil and keep you safe.'

As he spoke, Samuel crept behind him. He reached out and snatched the purse from Shipton’s hand. 'Mary, run!' he screamed.

But Shipton was quick. He seized Samuel's wrist, swung him around and hurled him like a sling-shot onto the steps of his house. Samuel scrambled to his feet as Shipton bore down on him. He staggered backwards up the three steps towards the door until he could go no further. Shipton's grimy hand reached towards Samuel's throat. Samuel covered his eyes and cowered.

'Come my boy, everyone wants to know their future.' Shipton reached past Samuel and undid the latch. The door swung open and Samuel fell inside.

The bare flagstones made for a hard landing. Samuel stood up, rubbing a bump on the back of his head. But when he saw what lay inside, his pain disappeared. Hanging from the walls were black and purple cloths adorned with crescent moons and white stars. Sparkling gems hung from the ceiling. At the far end of the room was a dining table with four candlesticks in a square in its centre. Around these were stacks of brightly coloured cards and a ring of stones and crystals. A large glistening red jewel took pride of place in the middle of the table.

'Wow! Look at this stuff!' marvelled Samuel, wandering deeper into the room and forgetting about the purse.

'I knew you'd see the light.' Shipton picked up the purse from the floor and tucked it into his pocket.

Mary stayed at the threshold. 'Samuel, get out of there! Now! Mum will flog you if she knows you’ve been in 'ere!'

Samuel paid no heed. He picked up a jewel and held it up to the window. 'Are these real? They are, aren’t they? Even the king'd be proud of these! And look at this one' He held up the sparkling red stone. 'This one's like it's on fire!'

'Put it down boy!' snapped Shipton 'That's worth far more than any stupid royal jewels. They can't heal the sick! They can't make you better!' He snatched the stone from Samuel's hand and placed it back in the middle of the table. 'In the right hands these things hold power beyond your wildest dreams.' He turned to Mary 'Come girl, come and see.'

Mary was still stood just outside the door. She knew this was somewhere that they shouldn't be.

'Come girl. You’ve nothing to fear.' He dangled the purse in the air by its string.

Mary