The Blackthorn Key

“The King’s Men are bound to be watching the gates out of London. Maybe, once I figure out what the patrols are like, you can sneak down to the docks and get out.” Tom handed me the leather purse.

It jingled when I took it. I pulled the drawstring open. Silver glinted in the light of the flame. I counted three shillings, and at least a dozen pennies.

I was stunned. “Where did you get these?”

“My father’s strongbox, in the bakery,” he said.

“Are you mad? Your father will kill you. I can’t take this.”

I held the purse out. Tom put his hands behind his back and stepped away. “Passage will cost a shilling at least,” he said. “More, if they think you’re desperate. One of our regular customers runs a barge. I think he could be bribed. I’ll ask him if he’ll take you.”

“Take me where?”

“I told you. Out of the city. You can’t stay here.” Tom looked into my eyes. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

“But . . . listen, I think I’ve figured it out. One of the Apothecaries’ Guild Council members, Valentine Grey, was at the Hall today. I don’t think the rest of the Council knew he was there. Then I saw him speaking to the Elephant. I think maybe he and Martin were Valentine’s apprentices. If that’s true, then Valentine’s in the Cult, too. If I tell Lord Ashcombe—”

“You can’t go to Lord Ashcombe.”

“I know I still don’t have any witnesses, but if I explain, I mean, Lord Ashcombe was there yesterday; he knows why I wanted my puzzle cube—”

“Oh, God’s truth, Christopher,” Tom huffed. “You don’t listen sometimes. Lord Ashcombe doesn’t care about your bloody puzzle cube. He thinks you’re to blame for Master Benedict’s death.”

My jaw dropped. “Me? But . . . why?”

“You were away from the shop exactly when the Cult struck. Lord Ashcombe thought that was suspicious. When he went back to look at the shop this morning, he saw the ledger page was missing. He knows you lied about what Master Benedict wrote. He’s sure there’s something incriminating on it, and you took it so no one else would see it.”

A pit grew in my stomach. “That still doesn’t explain why I would kill him.”

“He’s not sure. He thinks you might be working with the Cult of the Archangel.”

I stared at Tom. “That’s . . . that’s crazy.”

“He also suggested that maybe you just made Master Benedict’s death look like one of the Cult’s murders, so everyone would blame them instead of you. He thinks maybe you just wanted revenge for Master Benedict beating you.”

I stiffened. “He never laid a hand on me!” Then I realized: He had hit me. Once, only once. “Lady Brent,” I said.

Tom nodded. “Lord Ashcombe questioned her. She claimed Master Benedict beat you regularly. She said he was cruel to you, and you resented it. That’s why he went back to look at the shop, at the ledger page. I told him it wasn’t true, but he just thinks I’m lying to protect you.”

Master Benedict had hit me, cursed me, to keep me from Wat and the rest of the Cult. He’d played the part of cruel master well enough to save me, at least temporarily. But Wat hadn’t been the only audience. Lady Brent’s word would be enough for any court to convict me. I felt sick.

“Master Hugh,” I said suddenly. “He knows the truth. And he’s a master in the Guild. They’ll have to believe him. If we can find him, he’ll vouch for me.”

Tom stared at the floor. “Master Hugh is dead,” he said quietly.

I sat there, not moving. It was a moment before I could speak. “Wh . . . what?”

“Lord Ashcombe told me. The body buried in the garden, the one we saw on Oak Apple Day. It was Hugh’s.”