The Blackthorn Key

Tell no one.

When I’d first seen that page in the ledger, I’d thought Master Benedict had left it behind to name his killers. Now, after what Tom and I had deciphered, I wasn’t so sure that was the case. Something else was hidden behind these codes.

That’s what puzzled me. Codes were designed to fool strangers, as they’d fooled Lord Ashcombe. Hugh was no stranger. He’d been Master Benedict’s apprentice, too. He’d decipher this message faster than I ever could.

So why not tell me to go see him?

I shook my head. Hugh couldn’t be in the Cult of the Archangel. He wasn’t a killer. I was sure of it. Master Benedict would have warned me.

Then again, maybe he did.

Tell no one.

I finished scrubbing and sat on the step. I didn’t have a choice. Hidden in that message was something that mattered more to Master Benedict than his own life. It meant everything to him. To decipher it, I’d need Hugh’s help.

I decided I wouldn’t tell Hugh about the message. I’d talk around it instead, maybe mention one of the symbols. Say I saw it in a book or something. I had to take the chance. Whatever his ‘fourth’ was, Hugh Coggshall was the only one who knew what it meant.

? ? ?

Hugh didn’t have a shop. While still with Master Benedict, Hugh had become friends with Nicholas Lange, an apprentice in the Royal College of Physicians. According to my master, the two had spent almost as much time together as Tom and I did. They both became journeymen the same year, both married nearly identical girls, and both became masters a few years after that. As a physician, Dr. Lange needed someone to fill his patients’ prescriptions, so he contracted his friend Hugh as his exclusive apothecary. That way, Dr. Lange got a trusted preparer of medicaments, and Hugh—who’d loved every minute in my master’s workshop and hated every minute in the store—never had to stand behind a counter again.

That the contract brought Hugh a lot of money didn’t hurt, either. His home on Chelsea Street—next door to Nicholas Lange’s—was narrow, but of quality. It was solid brick, and tall, a story higher than most of its neighbors. His workshop was on the ground floor, with living quarters on the three floors above.

Tom and I reached his door, brightly shellacked oak banded with a curled, wrought-iron frame. Though it was growing dark, there were no lights in the house, not even from a fireplace.

Tom peered in the window. “Is he not home?”

I knocked. When there was no response, I knocked again, harder.

A door opened, but not the one I was in front of. From the house beside us stepped Dr. Lange, accompanied by his wife. Both were dressed for a night on the town.

“Dr. Lange!” I ran over to catch him before he stepped into the carriage waiting at the end of the path. “Dr. Lange!”

He turned and pushed his long brown wig away from his eyes. “Yes? Oh. Uh . . .” He wagged a finger, trying to place me.

“Christopher Rowe, sir,” I said. “Benedict Blackthorn’s apprentice. We met last Christmas, at his shop.”

“Yes, of course.” He frowned. “I’m glad I ran into you. Have you seen Hugh?”

“No,” I said, surprised. “I was just going to ask you the same.”

He huffed. “I haven’t. I’m quite cross about it, actually. Hugh was to join us for supper on Oak Apple Day, and he left us all waiting. Our lamb was cold.” He said it like he’d been forced to swallow hemlock. “Worse, I had several prescriptions to be filled today. I had to send my patients to that idiot on Cornhill instead. He’s not with Mr. Blackthorn?”

Obviously, Dr. Lange hadn’t heard the news yet. I just shook my head. “You haven’t seen Master Hugh since Thursday, then?”

He stroked his beard. “Yes, that sounds right. We had breakfast on Ascension Day. If he’s gone to see his wife without informing me, I’ll plant my boot in his backside.” He poked a finger at me. “And when you see him, you tell him that.”