The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Hide and Seek TONY POLLARD

Nicholas Owen had been in tight spots before, most of them of his own making. But it is one thing to build a priest hole, quite another to hide in it. If they did not find him, he promised himself, then the next would be made with an eye to comfort. Owen had lost count of the number of these secret chambers he had constructed over the years, but that was not to say that they were all alike. Every hidey-hole, just like the houses in which they were concealed, had its own character, its advantages and disadvantages. Whether inside a fireplace, beneath the stairs, under floorboards, within the hollow core of a wall or behind a tapestry, they differed in size, shape, airiness, level of illumination, ease of escape and method of entry. While each of these factors was always a consideration during conception and execution it was perhaps in rendering the last of them that Owen had proven himself the absolute master. Every commission required him to approach the challenge of concealment afresh, to impart a unique flourish and avoid the tricks and traps of his last. In repetition were sown the seeds of capture, torture and death.

No matter how well designed, there was always the risk of discovery, either through betrayal or thanks to the talents of one of the small number of priest hunters who turned a hefty profit from seeking out these hiding places and bagging their occupants. Every time the secrets of a hole were exposed, so the task of creating a new one became all the more difficult. With every discovery, the hunters learned something more about the habits of their prey. Like dogs pursuing a fox’s scent, they knew where best to look inside a house and how to recognize the tell-tale signs that a priest was hiding behind what to the uninitiated appeared to be a wall devoid of aperture, or a fireplace with nothing more than a fire in the grate.

An architect will always strive for perfection, but, however cramped his present conditions, Owen knew better than anyone that, when lives of his brethren were at risk, comfort was not a priority. What was there to be gained if, in creating it by making the chamber larger or diverting light from a nearby window, locating the entrance became easier for the hunters? A chink of light here or too wide a wall there was all that was needed to give the place away to a practised eye. In any case, a little cramp in the legs or a crook in the neck was nothing to a man born with a twisted back and known as Little John, thanks to his permanent stoop. But it was just this peculiarity, which God had chosen to bestow on him, which marked him out as ideal for the task. This was, after all, more than a mere profession; it was a calling, as strong as that which drove the many priests — who at times had cause to make use of these sanctuaries — to keep the Roman Catholic faith alive. It was his absolute belief that God had chosen him, just as he had chosen Noah to build the Ark, to serve as the architect of these hidden places. No one was better suited to spend days on end working in confined spaces. There were times, however, when he had to remember that not everyone was as small as he, and it was true that one or two of his creations were a little cosier than they could have been.

For the whole of Owen’s lifetime, and longer, it had been a crime to be a practising Catholic in England. It hadn’t always been so; during her brief reign, Mary Tudor had put fire and sword to bloody use in her determination to return the nation to the bosom of a mother church so cruelly defaced by her father, Henry VIII. But things changed again when her Protestant sister and rival Elizabeth came to the throne in the year of our lord fifteen hundred and fifty eight. Thus it was, that under Queen Bess Catholicism was outlawed; priests and Jesuit missionaries were regarded as enemies of the state and those who refused to deny their faith could be put to death. As a result, Catholicism was not only driven underground but also into the walls and under the stairs. But, just as the Romans had realized so many centuries before, it took more than persecution to kill a faith. And now there was James, the king from north of the border, of whom there were, at first, hopes of a more enlightened rule. His mother, Mary Queen of Scots, had after all been a devout Catholic. But within just a year the persecutions returned and it was the recent ill-fated attempt to put a stop to this reign of terror that caused Owen to be here now — a fugitive in a hide of his own handiwork.

It was the twenty-first day of January in the year of Our Lord sixteen hundred and six. Two months earlier, on a cold November night in London, Guido Fawkes had been discovered lurking within the cellars of the House of Lords in the company of dozens of barrels of gunpowder and a lighted lantern. The taking of Fawkes brought an end to what they were now calling the powder treason — a plot by disheartened Catholics to kill the king and as many members of parliament as were present in the house during the state opening. Other plotters, including their ringleader, Sir Robert Catesby, had been taken since, while others still were already dead. Owen was one of the few remaining at large and, despite his lowly ranking within the scheme, he had been tasked by its leaders with a heavy responsibility, and it was that which sat between his feet, confined within a leather sack — just as he was, between walls of timber and stone.

If failing anatomy and hard labour caused him some discomfort, this was nothing when compared to the agonies of torture. He knew all too well what the rack could do to a man, having before now been tied to the state’s favoured instrument of torture. His crime then had been to speak out against the arrest of a neighbour for attending a mass; but even under torture he refused to speak out against his fellow Catholics. In truth though, he had been on the verge of breaking when his freedom was purchased by a wealthy local family for whom he had built several holes in the past. This time though, if taken as a traitor and failed regicide, torture would merely be the first of many horrors to be faced.

As yet there had been only a little discomfort, though he was grateful for the blanket helping to shield him from the chilled air blowing in through a fissure in the exterior wall. But only half a day had passed since the hammering on the door. Now he would see how good his work had been.

“We have them,” said the first of the two horsemen to arrive in front of the red brick house. Tired but still restless, Noyce’s mount shifted on the carriage-way just inside the ornate gate posts. Removing his broad-brimmed hat he bent forward across his horse’s flank, studying the ground. The heavy wooden gates were slightly ajar and the gravel was scuffed and mounded — the legacy of a half-hearted attempt to drag them closed, but, with the house still a good distance away and their pursuers closing in behind them, their quarry had given it up as a bad job.

Hindlip Hall was a rambling pile with ivy-covered walls and towers, projecting wings, too many windows to count and spiralled chimney pots stacked high above the roof. Gathered behind the riders were foot soldiers, armed with half-pikes and muskets. Their easy posture and the patches of rust on their helmets and breastplates marked them out as something less than the king’s élite.

“Hiding like rats in the walls,” said Sir Henry Bromley, the well-dressed and even better fed local Justice, as he drew up alongside Noyce on a sweat-flecked bay.

Noyce’s horse threw back its head, stamped a hoof and through flared nostrils pushed smoky breath into the cold air. The sudden movement prompted the man standing closest to them to take a step back and almost drop the partizan he was carrying. He was the captain of militia, a gangly fellow with a thick grey beard in need of a trim and men in want of orders. “What a peculiar breed of coward they are, these Catholics. They dare try their hand at killing our king but then hide behind the wainscoting. You are correct Sir ’enry, vermin all of ’em.”

“That may be, captain, but they are clever vermin,” replied Noyce. “I have been hunting these people and their like for years. It will be a job of work to pull them from their holes, have no doubt of that.” He turned to look doubtfully at the slouching soldiers behind him. “We must hope that your men are up to the task at hand.”

“They will be, sir, once they’ve got their wind back. It is not an easy thing for infantry to keep up with cavalry.”

“Well, now you have arrived,” interjected Sir Henry. “You can instruct your men, winded or not, to surround the house. It would not do for our rats to leave the trap before we have closed it. There are outbuildings to the rear. Billet your men there. One of them is a smithy. When the house is secure I will require the services of the blacksmith.” He patted the side of the horse’s neck. “He has shaken loose a shoe on that damned forest track. Now, sir, be good enough to deploy your men.”

The captain strode towards his charges, bellowing orders. He was eager for his men to prove themselves to the intimidating outsider. Although he had never had cause to visit these parts before, the reputation of Mr Jonathan Noyce — the most successful priest hunter in all of England — preceded him and, among other things, it was well known that he did not suffer fools gladly. “Half of you spread out across the front of the house,” yelled the captain. “The rest of you close the circle from the rear. If anyone tries to leave the house stop them, but hold your fire for god’s sake. The king requires these people alive.”

He was pleased with his closing remark; it sounded professional. But his orders brought only disorder. Where there had been a suggested lack of military precision there was now chaos, as some of the men collided with their neighbours, while others seemed uncertain whether they were to move or not. Only the intervention of the sergeant and his bill-staff, which was applied liberally to shoulders and backsides, brought the mêlée to order.

As the soldiers moved off at a trot, Noyce reached into a saddlebag and pulled out a parchment, which he unrolled and began to study. “Now, tell me Sir Henry, who is the woman of the house?”

Sir Henry let out a laugh. “Perhaps, sir, we should postpone such niceties until we have completed the business at hand.”

“You mistake my intent Sir Henry,” replied the priest hunter, clearly irritated at the remark. “The house may have a master, but I’ll wager it is ruled by the mistress. Experience has taught that the women are oft times more devout than their spouses, and protective of priests as they are of their own children. Now who is she?”

“Why, she is … she is Habington’s wife of course. I think her name is Mary,” said a cowed Sir Henry. Then, eager to make amends for his gaff, he added, “My sources tell me that her husband is away from the house.”

“Then by God, she has full reign. Mark me sir, she is harbouring our prey. The woman is as much an enemy of the king and the Protestant faith as any of those men sheltered within her walls.”

“True, it is well known to be a Catholic household, but they have never given me any cause to interfere in their affairs. Unlike some, they have not been foolish enough to flaunt their beliefs.”

“What say you to harbouring failed assassins of the king? Cause enough for a little interference, would you not say?”

Sir Henry, let out a snort of indignation. “We should save our trouble and put the place to the torch. Smoke them out or let them roast. The fires of hell will be familiar to them soon enough.”

Noyce rolled up the parchment and slapped it against the palm of a gloved hand. “Do you know what this is?”

“I have no idea of its contents sir, though I would be pleased enough to read them if you felt it would advantage our cause.”

“That will not be required,” said Noyce as he repacked the document. “It is a king’s warrant for the arrest of all of those known or suspected to have taken part in the gunpowder plot, or to have given the traitors aid or succour. It states that the greatest care is to be taken, in servicing said warrant, and is most specific about the importance of collecting any evidence which may prove guilt or innocence.”

“Evidence,” scoffed Sir Henry. “There will be enough of that spilling from their treacherous tongues once they are strapped to the rack.”

“You wish to question the king’s warrant sir? I should not need to explain to a King’s Justice that hard evidence is much preferred to testimony gathered under torture. And we are hardly likely to pull much of worth from the charred ashes of the house, are we?”

Sir Henry was watching his soldiers amble across the lawn, their armour clinking as they surrounded the house. He was growing tired of being patronized by a mere commoner. But he was also mindful that the man held the king’s commission. “We will do the king’s bidding, sir, rest assured of that.”

“Follow my lead, Sir Henry, and you can rest assured the king will reward you, but fail and you will be exchanging your grand house for a cell in the Tower of London.”

Sir Henry looked as though he was about to explode but, just like those barrels of powder beneath parliament, the conflagration failed to ignite. “The king shall not find me wanting, sir, and I trust nor will you,” he thundered. “And now, sir, if we have finished our debate, might I suggest we set to work.” Without waiting for a reply, the knight spurred his horse and cantered off towards the house, his dander flying like a banner.

The other rider sat for a moment, pondering the impact of his words. It was going better than he could have hoped and his earlier fears melted away. More confident now, but determined to remain alert, he urged his own horse forward.

The place was like a castle under siege. There were sentinels at the gates preventing free passage to and from the house; meanwhile, troops patrolled the gardens and clattered about inside, overturning furniture and prying away panels in the search for hiding places. They had been at work for almost two days now and, with no sign of their prey, Noyce was becoming frustrated at the haphazard nature of the search.

“Your men charge about the house like so many children playing games,” he complained to Sir Henry. “A search like this requires care and, most of all, quiet. I need to hear the house.”

Sir Henry, who was eating, as he always seemed to be, slapped his fork down on to the table. Since morning he had been suffering from a stiff neck and it was doing little for his mood. “Gads, sir, you suggest that I remove my men from the house? Perhaps you would like me to withdraw them from the grounds also, in order that you might listen to the house?”

“The first of those things would greatly assist my work, though I think some of your men should be sent away.” He cast an eye over the dismembered chicken carcass sitting in front of Sir Henry. “We have emptied the pantry three times over and your men are now scouring the locality for victuals. If the looting continues, sir, you risk stirring unrest, and that will assist neither your personal standing nor our present task.”

Sir Henry knew all too well that, as the local Justice, failure to capture the fugitives would reflect badly on him, as would complaints about the misbehaviour of his men. Food could be paid for of course, but the coin would have to come from his own purse. He turned back to his fowl but seemed to have lost his appetite. “Very well, Mister Noyce, I will speak to the captain. I shall give you the house and send away some of the men. I trust though, that, with the fulfilment of your request, we can look forward to a satisfactory end to this affair. Find me the traitors, and find them soon.”

“I will find them, Sir Henry, but it shall be for the king that duty will be served, not for your own gratification.” With that, Noyce turned on his heels and left. Sir Henry looked as though he was about to shout after the impudent fellow but, instead, picked up the fork and thrust it angrily into the chicken’s breast.

Leaving Sir Henry fuming at the dining table, Noyce went to the kitchen where he found the mistress of the house in the company of her servants. A scullery-maid was reporting on the condition of the house. “There is a great tear in the tapestry in the upper gallery and this morning they have ripped up boards from the floor in the great hall.”

Mary Habingdon listened as the list of desecrations grew: panels removed, doors unhinged, stairs lifted. The maid was clearly anxious, her voice quivering as she continued her litany. Mary on the other hand was the very picture of calm, and she seemed more concerned with re-adjusting her bonnet than fretting about the damage done to her beloved house. It was typical of her behaviour since the arrival of her uninvited guests, thought Noyce. She had treated them with haughty contempt, done nothing to assist or provoke them and had remained adamant that she had nothing to hide.

“The wainscoting can be replaced and the floorboards polished but the tapestry is another matter,” she said. “Repairing it will certainly be beyond my skills with needle and thread. May God forgive those foolish oafs.” Unaware that Noyce was watching, she crossed herself.

Noyce coughed, announcing his presence. One of the servants let out a surprised gasp on turning and seeing him loitering in the door. The group dispersed, returning to the tasks which had busied them prior to their mistress’s arrival and leaving her standing alone.

“Mr Noyce, have you tired of destroying my house?”

“Such is the price for hiding priests and traitors both, Mrs Habingdon. Now I think it is time that you and I had a talk.”

The woman strode towards Noyce, her annoyance only now showing. “I thought you and your kind preferred conversation over the rack. Is that what you have in mind for me Mr Priest Hunter? Torture, until I tell you where these supposed priests are hidden?”

It was indeed a pretty bonnet, thought Noyce; it was just a shame that the face it framed was now exuding barely disguised contempt. “Let us hope that it will not come to that. Perhaps we could proceed in private? I am sure you would not want to expose your servants to any more unpleasantness than is truly necessary. Let us not forget that I have still to question them about what goes on here.”

This veiled threat to her servants was enough to encourage a change of attitude. “Very well, Mr Noyce, come with me.” She gestured to the door and Noyce followed her from the room.

“Will he torture her?” asked a young girl with a scrubbing brush in her hand and fear in her voice.

“I would like to see him try,” said one of the cooks with a reassuring smile. “He will pay dear for the torn tapestry. Her father brought that back from the wars in Flanders.”

Noyce was standing by a glowing fire and had taken care to adjust his sword so as to keep its tip away from the flames. At his insistence, Mrs Habingdon had taken to a chair, beside which a needlework frame stood idle, coloured threads dangling to the floor. She eyed her own handiwork critically and once again her thoughts turned to the damaged tapestry, which she had yet to examine for herself.

Noyce pre-empted her. “The damage is most unfortunate, Mrs Habingdon. The soldiers are incompetent. They do not know how to search a house. I may however be in a position to rid you of them.”

“And what have I done to deserve such treatment, Mr Noyce? To you I am nothing more than another pestilent Catholic. Why would you wish to ease my discomfort?”

The man took a step forward from the fire and drew his sword, causing the woman to shrink back in her chair. To demonstrate that no threat was intended he placed the blade on a nearby table and took a seat in the chair opposite her, on the other side of the fire.

“Because, my dear lady, easing your discomfort might just have the same effect on my own, shall we say, rather unenviable predicament?”

Mrs Habingdon was studying him, trying to gauge his measure. There was something about him, a charm which she would not before have associated with a man who chose to hunt priests for a living. “In my husband’s absence you might think me obliged to act as he would in such circumstances as these. But in the world of domestic affairs I am the mistress of my own destiny. Now, sir, you have my attention so, pray continue with your exposition.”

With the house cleared of soldiers and more than half of them now marching away, Noyce was left at peace to advance the search. But, when Sir Henry found him, he was sitting idle in the great hall. “Well, Noyce, what do you hear? I can assume that you are listening and not just resting your backside?”

“Quiet as the grave I am afraid. They are not hiding in here. Of that I am confident.”

“Then where in the blazes are they? There are dozens of apartments in this pile. Is it your intention to sit in each of them until it becomes apparent to you that Jesuits in hiding know better than to create a din?”

“No, I intend to search the long gallery. You might care to join me.”

“Anything to hasten an end to all of this. If only Habingdon would return. Then we would make some progress.”

“And how is that, sir?”

“Why, we can rack him of course. I refuse to torture a woman but, when he gets back, I will know the location of each and every one of the hiding places soon enough.”

“Now that would be a shame,” said Noyce, jumping to his feet. “I have always taken pride in winning my prize without recourse to torture. It is such a noisy, messy business and it entirely takes the sport out of the chase. And, in any case, there is a flaw in your proposition.”

“And what is that sir?”

“I have not noticed you with a rack about your person. Nor have I observed your men setting one up in the gardens. I can only suppose they are too busily engaged in ripping up the roses and pissing on the lawn.”

Sir Henry was quick with his response. “I am sure a rope thrown over a rafter in the barn will provide more than one way of producing the requisite agonies.”

Noyce had never marked Sir Henry out as a man of initiative. “In the meantime, might I suggest we continue the search? Perhaps now I can prove to you the nature of my talent.”

Sir Henry was already pondering what sort of knot might best secure a man suspended by his hands, preferably while they were tied behind his back. But he saw no harm in going along with the priest hunter, at least for now. “The long gallery I believe you said?”

Owen had finished taking stock of his victuals and did not like the result of his accounting; the biscuits and quince jelly would last no more than another day, the beer perhaps another two. There was a fortune in the bag at his feet but a man could not live by silver coins alone. There were far better holes in the house, but, being only a lay brother, he had shown favour to the priests. The previous day, the sound of soldier’s boots stomping across the floor and the crash of furniture had died down, almost to the point that he thought they may have abandoned the search. But then, with his ears straining, he picked up quieter stirrings, the pad of stockinged feet and the gentle teasing of the woodwork. These were not sounds to sooth the soul. Oh Lord, he prayed, I would prefer a company of clumsy soldiers — who are no better than the blind leading the blind — over a single priest hunter.

Equipped with the tools for the job, he could work on improving his surroundings, for, even with the great risk of the searchers hearing the sound of his labours, doing something seemed a better option than doing nothing. But, in the absence of tools, he had no option but to wait — either to be discovered in hiding or for his enemies to give up their search. But, as time slipped slowly by, another option came to mind. And so it was that he determined to leave his hiding place, and then the house, if it were possible; if it were not, then he would make for one of the better appointed priest holes.

Once again, with his best ear to the wall he listened to the house and what she had to tell him about the hunter. At first, all was silent; but then he heard it, the sound of someone upstairs, walking down the long gallery from where the floorboards were creaking. The timbers there were badly seasoned and it had long been Mrs Habingdon’s desire to have them replaced; but, whenever he arrived at the house for a period of employment, he was tasked with creating a further hiding place. There were now so many, he was afraid that the house, thus honeycombed, would collapse on to its foundations. Until then, the number and precise location of all of the holes would be known only to him and the lady of house.

He always worked alone and at night, reciting prayers as he carved his way into the fabric of the house. Then, when the work was done he would unveil his latest creation to his mistress and teach her its secrets. There were regularly priests and lay brothers in the house, but never so many as to require the use of more than two or three of the hiding places. Nevertheless, the mere knowledge of their presence seemed to gift Mrs Habingdon with a peace of mind which only the attendance of a mass in her hidden chapel could improve upon. This time though it was different. These were not priests making one of their regular clandestine visits but a group of desperate men, traitors caught up in a plot which had gone terribly wrong. There would be no giving up on the search for them as had been the case on many a previous occasion. This time they would be hunted to the ends of the earth.

Noyce was running a lighted candle across the surface of the wood panelling. He was crouching now, holding it close to the junction of the floor and the wall. At first Sir Henry thought the flame was merely providing illumination, shedding light into the nooks and crannies. But then, as it continued to move along the flame flickered, leaping away from the wall for just an instant before steadying again as it resumed its passage across the skirting. When drawn back and held steady the flame guttered almost to the point of expiration.

It was obvious even to Sir Henry that the draught was coming from a void behind the panel and he watched, fascinated, as the priest hunter stood up and began to feel along its edge. Unable to get a purchase with his fingertips, he pulled a knife from his belt and began to prize away at the beading. The blade disappeared behind the wood and then, after a little agitation, there was a click and the wood popped away from the wall.

Stepping back, Sir Henry unsheathed his sword and pointed its tip towards the widening gap. “I should call for the men, they might be armed.”

“Indeed they might,” said Noyce as he held the dagger above the loosened panel. “But I think we still hold the advantage over those within.”

“Very well,” replied Sir Henry, who was now speaking in a whisper. With his free hand he too drew a dagger and with both blades poised, he motioned with his chin for Noyce to pull open the panel.

With a jerk the hidden door opened and Sir Henry cleared his throat before bellowing into the dark. “Come out from there.” There was no reply. “It will go better for you if we do not have to come in and take you.” Nothing stirred. “There is nowhere left to run. Come out!” Still nothing. There seemed little option but to enter. Sir Henry eyed the narrow gap and then looked down at his prodigious, sash-bound frontage.

“Perhaps you will allow me?” said Noyce.

The Justice did not need to hear the offer made twice. “Yes, yes of course. You are the priest hunter and I am sure you have seen more of these niches than many a Jesuit.”

Noyce could barely mask a smile as he ushered his companion out of the way and followed the candle and point of dagger into the void. Once inside, the candle flickered wildly. But there was light enough to illuminate a small box-like space just large enough to accommodate a crouching man of no more than medium stature. But there was no crouching man. The priest hole was empty.

Noyce took a moment to study the interior, noting the vent in the back wall through which the draught entered. At least, he thought, the occupant would not suffocate, but even with the door open he was beginning to find the atmosphere oppressive.

“Empty?” asked a disappointed Sir Henry as Noyce backed out into the hall.

“This has not seen an occupant for some time.”

“You are certain of that?”

“A man would leave behind some trace. We would smell him.”

Sir Henry sheathed his sword and dropping to his knees, peered into the hole. There was nothing in there, neither seat nor commode. “Zounds, there can be few torture devices in the Tower as bad.”

“It is strange is it not,” offered Noyce, “the lengths to which a man will go to avoid being disembowelled alive?”

Sir Henry closed the door and frowned. “There are times sir, when your sympathies would appear misdirected.”

Noyce was already walking away. “My work has made me a student of the human animal, that is all. Now, sir, shall we begin our search again? A house this size may have a dozen such places concealed within it.”

Sir Henry paused before following, taking the time to run his fingers across the edge of the secret door. He could not help but admire the skill required to conceal the join so well. To all but the most experienced eyes there was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen here. Noyce may be insolent, he thought, but the man clearly knew his business.

By noon the next day two more holes had been breached, and each was empty. The first was concealed beneath the floorboards of the vestibule, cleverly placed so close to the front door that it was almost outside rather than being buried within the heart of the house as might be expected. The second was in the pantry, concealed behind the heavy stone walls of the under-croft and with access provided by a hatch cut into the back of a high shelf. The priest hiding there would require the dexterity only to be found in a young man, and, from the size of the hiding place itself, Noyce could only assume the architect intended it for the concealment of a boy.

Despite the cupboards being bare, Sir Henry continued to be impressed with the priest hunter’s abilities, at one point comparing him to a terrier let loose in a rabbit warren, albeit a warren which lacked rabbits. By the time the third of the day’s discoveries was made — the largest of them all — inside a fireplace, the Justice began to worry that the birds had flown. Noyce paused only to enquire whether Sir Henry would prefer him to find birds or rabbits before continuing with his search.

“I want no more than twelve men remaining,” insisted Sir Henry, as he rode along the ragged line of men. It had been three full days since he first arrived here, at the gates to the house. Although Noyce had succeeded in sniffing out four hiding places, not one of them had produced a fugitive. He did not doubt that, given enough time, the man would find every secret space in the house. But further delay would not impress his superiors in London, and with every passing day so his own costs mounted. Noyce was right; it was an expensive business to keep soldiers in the field. He contented himself with the thought that if the fugitives were still bottled up, and pray God they were, then there was nothing that a dozen of them couldn’t do as well as a hundred.

The priest hunter was watching the activity at the gate from a window in the long gallery. He was pleased to see yet more men being sent away and, having won the confidence of the Justice, was looking forward to making his move before the evening was out.

The captain yelled orders to the men, who, with no great hurry, organized themselves into marching order and began to move off. Progress along the track was halted almost immediately by a party of riders approaching at speed. The men on foot stood aside as the horsemen cantered along the centre of the track without so much as a sideways glance.

“Who in God’s name is this?” asked Sir Henry, to no one in particular.

“I have no inkling sir,” said the captain, “but they look to be carrying enough armour to equip a small army.”

“I fear that is exactly what they are captain,” said Sir Henry, who had a dreadful sense of foreboding about the new arrivals. Could it be that news of his lack of success had already reached his superiors? Whatever the motive behind this unexpected development, the grim expression on the face of the lead rider did not bode well.

There were half a dozen of them on tall military mounts, all breastplates and thigh-covering tassets, though the man in front was marked out not by his armour, of which he wore none, but by the austerity of his dress, which lacked both collar and cuff. He pulled up his horse in front of Sir Henry’s mount and gave an eye to the house before speaking.

“You will be Sir Henry Bromely?”

“I am sir, and those are my men you just forced off the road.”

The newcomer cast a glance over his shoulder. “On their way home are they? Can we presume then that your task is complete?”

The colour was rising in Sir Henry’s cheeks; he had suffered enough impertinence over these past days. “Whatever my task might be I am hardly likely to report its results to persons unknown. Now who in blazes are you and what is your business here?”

The stranger did not even have the decency to look at him when he answered, for his eyes were fixed on the house again. “I am Jonathan Noyce, sir, officer of the king tasked with bringing his Catholic enemies to justice.”

Like bolted claret, the colour immediately drained from Sir Henry’s cheeks. “Jonathan Noyce? That cannot be. You are an impostor, sir.”

The man pulled a parchment from his satchel. “This is a Royal warrant, bearing my name and the king’s signature.” He held it out to Sir Henry.

“But you cannot be Mr Noyce.”

“Will you take the blasted warrant and examine it, sir. I am here to take over the search of the house. And your obstruction will go badly for you.”

Sir Henry took the parchment and unrolled both it and the uncomfortable memory of the time when Mr Noyce — the other Mr Noyce — had refused to let him examine his warrant. Unfortunately, this document appeared to be genuine, but it was difficult to keep it from rolling up again while he used one hand to rub his aching neck.

“It looks, sir, as though your endeavours are taking their toll,” observed the new arrival.

“There is many a draught in that old house,” replied Sir Henry, “and they are not good for the bones.” He looked up from the warrant and let out a curse at his own stupidity. “Hell’s teeth, the draught!” He tossed the rolled parchment back to Noyce and, without a “by your leave”, put spur to horse. He had not gone far before Noyce followed, beckoning his men to do the same.

Noyce’s arrival might have caused Sir Henry considerable discomfort, but his appearance was having an equally dramatic effect on the watcher at the window. From there, he could only guess at the nature of the conversation which had just taken place. No doubt the luckless Sir Henry had explained how the man known to him as Jonathan Noyce had fallen into his company two weeks previously, not long after learning from a local informant that refugee plotters might be hiding in his county. In turn, Noyce would have explained that, after spending weeks searching Holbeach and nearby houses, he too had received word that the notorious Nicholas Owen and two priests, all of whom were suspected plotters, had been run to ground at Hindlip Hall.

With the men fast approaching, the watcher turned and began to run along the gallery, glancing through the windows as he passed them. Armed with Mrs Habingdon’s information, which had already guided him to the four empty priest holes, his course was pre-determined. As though on ice, his boots skated across the boards and he turned into a smaller hallway before bursting through a door.

The pounding of feet, booted now, grew louder, striding across the floor in a fashion so determined that there could be little doubt about the final destination: his hiding place. All of a sudden, the ends of the earth seemed closer than Owen had imagined. With no weapon at hand he uttered a final prayer. But even now, as the light began to break in through the gap in the shifting timbers, it came to him that a locking device on the interior could prevent such an uninvited entry. But it was too late. There would be no more building projects. The enemy had breached his defences and he was about to be taken. He pressed himself against the back wall, determined to make his extrication as difficult as possible, and watched as the man who would be claiming bounty on him showed his face in the entrance.

“Mr Quick!” exclaimed Owen, scarcely able to believe his eyes. “Gads sir! I thought … I thought you were a priest hunter.”

“There hangs a tale,” said the breathless man in the aperture. “This is far too small,” he said, shaking his head in disappointment at the sight of the crouching man on the other side. “There is barely room for one in there, let alone the two of us.”

Owen had been holed up for so long, that the implication of this observation appeared to pass him by. “What of our friends?”

Quick tried to ignore the miasmic stench emanating from the freshly exposed hiding place. “Never mind them. We have enemies a plenty about to enter the house. We need another hiding place. As the house seems riddled with them I trust you can oblige?”

Owen nodded. “I was not far from trying to remove myself from here to there, when you made your entrance.”

“Then we must move quickly,” said the man, who for days had been known as Mr Noyce but was now answering to Mr Quick. After checking that the coast was still clear, he reached in a hand and pulled the hunchback from his refuge. “The silver, you have the silver?”

In response, Owen produced a bag, which he had some difficulty lifting. Quick took it from him and closed the hole behind them. As they moved off with Owen in the lead, it was obvious that days of confinement and immobility had taken their toll. He was limping along on stiff limbs, when a sprint was required. Quick, perhaps eager to live up to his true name, did what he could to help him along and speed their progress.

Quick served as crutch to his companion and struggled to keep a grip on the bag as they hobbled down the hall. At the top of the stairs they halted, the sound of raised voices giving away the presence of men in the vestibule below. But there was also a woman’s voice. It was Mrs Habingdon delivering a tongue-lashing. “Mr Noyce has been in my house for these three days past, prying into crack and crevice and now you tell me that this is Mr Noyce? Have you lost your senses Sir Henry, or are you incapable of telling one man from another? It bodes poorly sir for the execution of justice in this county, indeed it does!”

They did not wait to hear Sir Henry’s reply, and thanks to the ever resourceful lady of the house and her raised voice, knew better than to descend the stairs. “This way,” whispered Owen, gesturing along the landing. With the movement returning to his legs he guided them to the rear of the house to a more modest set of stairs. “For the use of the servants,” he said as they made their way down. Quick glanced out of a window and was perturbed to see any chance of slipping out through a back door denied them, as soldiers took up fresh positions in the rear court. On reaching the ground floor they disappeared down another flight of stairs and entered into the under-croft.

Sir Henry was the first to enter the room but Noyce, still unaware of the reason for the Justice’s agitation, was not far behind. Although in disarray, the bed-chamber was an elegant room, which was why Sir Henry had commandeered it on his arrival at the house. Garments lay scattered throughout, but in the absence of his man-servant and dresser — and Mrs Habingdon’s unwillingness to provide such — how could he be expected to keep the place in order? The drapes hanging from the beams of the four-poster were billowing like sails in the wind. Sir Henry drew his sword and approached the bed. He pulled back one of the drapes and let out a gasp.

Noyce lifted an edge of the thin wooden panel before letting it fall back on to the bed. With sword drawn Sir Henry climbed up on to the bed, cracking the panel in two as he set his feet upon it. At the head of the bed there was a hole in the wall, which had been exposed by the removal of the panel. Sitting a small distance back from the panel’s frame were sturdier timbers, sitting one on top of the other like the planks in the hull of a boat. These had been pulled aside to reveal a dark chasm through which a draught of cold air was blowing.

“Your room I presume?” said Noyce, as he kicked aside a large night-shirt while securing a view into the exposed hiding place.

Sir Henry was standing on his own pillows and peering into the darkness. He said nothing.

Noyce could barely disguise the contempt in his voice. “Then one of them was hiding less than an arm’s length away from where you have been resting your head at night.”

Sir Henry put a hand to his neck and replied bitterly, “That would appear to be the case. And thanks to this damned draught I can now barely move my head on my shoulders.”

If Noyce was wondering how Sir Henry could have failed to notice the draught previously, the sound of an empty bottle falling from under one of the pillows was enough to provide an answer. “Let us hope, sir, that your head stays on your shoulders. The king will not look kindly on failure in this matter.”

Owen and Quick tip-toed past the busy kitchen, where a soldier could be heard working his charm on one of the serving girls. They approached the pantry, where the day before Mrs Habingdon had directed Quick to an unoccupied hiding place. Small it may have been, but his “discovery” of that cubby-hole — along with several others, in the company of Sir Henry — had done much to impress the Justice of his reliability. The scheme had almost worked: he had succeeded in passing himself off as the country’s most celebrated priest hunter, had all but convinced Mrs Habingdon of his allegiance to her own cause and, with the soldiers out of the way, stood every chance of getting the silver off the premises. But all that had been spoiled by the appearance of Noyce.

Gratifying as it was that their destination was not the dreadfully tight space in the pantry, this more accommodating space in the scullery next door was still considerably smaller and more uncomfortable then even the rudest cell in the Tower. While incarcerated here, his devout companion had his rosary beads and prayers to keep his mind occupied, but Quick needed more than incantations and baubles to distract him from the closeness of the walls. When what he had always considered to be a long line of female conquests proved only long enough to provide a pitifully brief distraction, his thoughts turned to the events of the past few weeks.

The taking of Guido Fawkes and his powder, sitting unburned within the confines of hoop and stave, had been only the beginning. The plot involved a dozen or more conspirators at its heart, and many more with knowledge of it. Under instruction from the Spanish Ambassador in London, Quick arrived at Huddington Court, where, with his impeccable references he was accepted into the company of thirty or more conspirators and supporters; despite being grateful for that, he couldn’t help look down on them for their naive lack of suspicion. In the event of the plot’s success, which required king and parliament by then to be blown to the high heavens, this meeting would have seen the formation of an army. At that moment their numbers were small, but spurred on by success there would have been determination and money enough to expand their ranks a thousandfold.

But king and parliament, being alive to do so, went to great lengths to broadcast their survival and to expose the plot as a failure. It was a state of affairs which made these thirty or more — not first recruits, but a gang of desperados — hell-bent on saving their own skins. It would have been good to complete his business there at a time when, at least for a man who knew his business, escape was still a straightforward matter. But the opportunity did not arise, for it was panic not planning which now dictated the course of events. Some of the conspirators had already been taken, while those with weaker resolve had given themselves up only to find their pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears.

If it were not bad enough that the king’s men were casting their nets, the Catholics too, through the mouthpiece of the Archpriest Father Blackwell, were falling over themselves to damn the conspirators as traitors, while professing their unswerving loyalty to the king. Fearful that their rendezvous was compromised, Sir Robert Catesby, the chief conspirator, gave the order for departure. Some went their own way, melting into the night, but Quick had no option but to join the leaders. Their next destination was to be Holbeach House on the border with Staffordshire, and so, early in the morning of November the seventh, the party, in sombre mood, stepped out into heavy rain. Weapons previously intended for use in the uprising were now carried for personal protection, and as much powder as could be carried was transported along with the muskets in an open wagon. Though he kept a watchful eye out for their pursuers, Quick took time to study his companions carefully, looking for any sign of the documents which were the subject of his mission. But with cloaks tightly wrapped against the rain it was difficult to see who might be carrying what.

On arriving at Holbeach the following evening, the men, who were by now much reduced in numbers, heard mass said by one of the two priests in their company, made confession and set about fortifying the place. The priests and one other, the crook-backed Nicholas Owen, left soon after. Their horses were laden with the saddlebags containing the silver coins which, with a fairer wind, would have financed the uprising. It was obvious to Quick that those of his companions who remained had no intention of being taken as, in preparation for what must surely be their last stand, the wagon was unloaded and the weapons distributed. Jesuits and plotters may have it in them to be martyrs but their cause was not his. Though a clean death in battle was always preferable to the lingering agonies of torture, neither particularly appealed to Quick and so, without drawing attention to his actions, he spent what little time there was left working out a way of escape. The courtyard to the front of the house was a death trap and the back gave on to open fields, easily covered by well-deployed musketeers. The best hope lay to the side of the house where the woods were closest, and a loosened window would provide an exit. Offering to check the approaches to the house, he used the opportunity to conceal his horse among the trees.

He returned as dawn rose, to be rewarded with a glimpse of the leather-bound bundle being examined by Catesby, in the company of fellow conspirators Digby and Rockwood. Now unfastened, the package revealed a series of parchments, which Quick was certain represented the coded agreement between the plotters and those among the Spanish court who wished to cause mischief between the Royal houses of Spain and England.

“These shall be of little help to us now,” said Catesby as he spread the half dozen or so documents across the table, rubbing his fingertips over the ornate seals and reading the contents as nothing but lost opportunities.

“Perhaps they may serve as passports,” said Digby, a man whom Quick had previously observed to be armed with an optimistic demeanour. “The king would have an interest in their contents and so we might trade them for our lives.”

Catesby rolled up the parchments and tied off the bundle. “You shall require no passport to enter through the gates of heaven, Mr Digby. Now, gentlemen, shall we break our fast and see what the day holds?”

“Two hundred men is what the day holds,” said Quick, as he stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the room. “They are no more than an hour away and, from their line of march, know well their destination.”

Catesby stepped back from the table, leaving the bundle where it lay. “I for one intend to be here to greet them.” He strode towards the door, but paused before leaving. “From your continued presence I can only assume that each of you intends to do the same.” Digby and Rookwood nodded but Quick had taken care to step back into the shadows. “Then so be it. Make sure the men know their places.”

There was a flurry of activity as the doors were bolted and the part-finished barricades of furniture completed. Quick joined the others in the main hall to find the Wright brothers breaking open casks of gunpowder. While Kit Wright took an axe to the barrels Jack Wright distributed the piles of dark powder across a sheet laid out in front of the fireplace.

Quick was horrified to see a healthy fire blazing in the grate not half a pace away from the carpet of powder. “What in god’s name are you doing?” he asked, being careful to remain at a distance.

Kit took a pause from his labours and propped himself on the handle of the axe. “The rain has soaked the powder. We should have transported it in a covered wagon.”

“And by this do you intend to dry it or blow us all to hell?”

“What choice do we have?” said Kit, who was pushing the powder around with all the nonchalance of a baker working flour. “The enemy are upon us and we have not a usable grain.”

“Perhaps we should have sent you rather than Fawkes to blow up the Houses of Parliament? If this exercise is anything to go by, I doubt whether a single stone would have been left standing.”

With their task complete, the brothers turned their attention to a large chest which Catesby instructed them to move to a window. Meanwhile, Rookwood, who was cutting fresh matches for the muskets, wandered over to check the condition of that powder which had been lying for the longest time. Quick had seen enough madness for one day and, with everyone occupied, he returned to the parlour, where the bundle was lying unattended. He had no sooner picked it up when there was an almighty roar and the shock of an explosion powerful enough to rattle the glass in the window panes.

Quick hurried back into the hall, where through a cloud of acrid smoke he could only vaguely make out the scene of devastation. After a few moments the grey veil rolled back to reveal a gaping hole in the floor where the powder had been. Flames licked over the charred boards at the crater’s edge and several pieces of furniture were on fire. Writhing bodies littered the room and the cries of men provided a high-pitched echo to the explosion. Those unharmed in the blast, which thankfully had been limited in scale by the diffuse spread of the powder on the floor, attended their injured colleagues.

Rookwood was among the casualties; his clothes were torn to rags and his flesh blackened, but with help he was able to stand. A man called John Grant had not been so fortunate; his face was badly burned and it would be a while longer before it was realized that his eyes has been scorched out of their sockets. Catesby too was burned about the face, though after the application of a water-soaked rag it became apparent that his eyes were unaffected. Quick assisted with the injured but only after pulling the parchments from the bundle and tossing each of them into the heart of a fire which, if not quickly attended to, would engulf the entire house. The Wright brothers went for water but Quick was satisfied that the incriminating parchments were burned to ashes well before they returned to quench the flames.

“It must have been a spark from the fire,” said a sheepish Jack as he emptied a pail, and stamped at the smouldering rug beneath his feet.

“Well who could have predicted such a thing?” replied Quick, who had decided it was time to leave.

With the fire under control and those of the wounded still capable of fighting back on their feet, the final preparations were made. The muskets were loaded with the small amount of dry powder removed from the pile before the explosion, and the men took up their positions behind doors and windows. All of them, that is, apart from Quick, who took the opportunity to climb through the window at the side of the house and made good his escape. There was just enough time for him to make it to his horse and retire a little further into the woods before the first of the troops arrived. Making for higher ground, he took up a position which allowed him a view of the scene below.

He watched as the soldiers encircled the house, leaving their horses picketed at a safe distance, before moving forward to engage. One of their number — their commander, he supposed — entered the courtyard at the front of the house and yelled something. The men were too far away to make out the words, but he guessed that they were an order to the occupants to give themselves up. An answer was shouted back but again he couldn’t make it out, though he didn’t need to. On hearing it, the officer left the courtyard just in time for his men to open a withering fire on the façade of the house.

The crack of musketry echoed from all quarters, even from those where there were no opponents to return it. But, at the front of the house, puffs of smoke were emitted from the barricaded windows as the defenders began to use up the powder for which they had paid such a heavy price. In the ensuing minutes, one or two of the attackers fell, but with their overwhelming numbers there could be only one outcome. Then, perhaps in their determination to take as many of their foes with them as possible, the defenders opened the front door and three of them dashed into the courtyard, discharging muskets and pistols as they headed for the gate. He thought he recognized Tom Wintour out in the lead, with the Wright brothers close behind. It was a suicidal enterprise and Wintour was the first to fall, clutching his shoulder as he went down. Both of the brothers fell soon after; the last to fall — Kit, he thought — made a desperate attempt to crawl to his brother before being struck by another ball.

Quick watched as soldiers entered into the yard and cautiously made their way to the door, some of them checking on the condition of their fallen foes as they did so. The Wright brothers must have been dead, as they were left where they lay, but Wintour was pulled to his feet and dragged back through the gate. Wintour would live to regret his survival, thought Quick, as he finally spurred his horse away from the house and its doomed inhabitants.

He rode away from the sound of muffled gunshots coming from inside the house, content at a job well done. But he should have known better than to let his guard down, for he had travelled no further than a half mile from the house when his path was crossed by a party of horsemen, who seemed determined not to let him proceed. He laid a hand on the woollen blanket lying across the front of his saddle and took comfort from the two holstered pistols concealed beneath.

“Sir, you come from the direction of Holbeach,” said one of the men, though whether this were intended as a statement of fact or a question, Quick was not quite sure. He decided on the latter, as the fellow had an interrogative manner about him — his eyes roving inquisitively, and his thin lips framing a tongue untainted by any flavour of sympathy. In short, he looked accustomed to asking questions of his fellow man and receiving answers.

“Indeed I do,” answered Quick. “But it is not a place I would recommend to the casual visitor at this time.”

“There are times when a man needs to travel towards the sound of guns,” came the response, the man briefly standing on his stirrups so as better to hear the crack of musketry still coming from the direction of the house. “And I would say from the look of you that you have soldiered yourself. Flanders perhaps?”

“Aye, I have seen service. But a man is always wise to put such excitements behind him while he still can.”

“There are many who would agree with you sir. Might I ask your name?”

“Indeed you might but I would expect yours in return.”

“A fair bargain, and as a show of good faith why don’t I offer mine first. I am Jonathan Noyce, a servant of King James, whose royal person was so rudely endangered not two days past.”

Quick knew of the man — his reputation as the country’s most successful priest taker was second to none — the mere mention of his name was enough to put the fear into any Catholic. “In which case Holbeach is most likely to be your destination. From what I have just heard, there are enough Papists hiding there to keep you in business for some time to come.”

“You are well informed sir, but alas you remain a well-informed stranger, for your side of the bargain has yet to be met.”

“I am Peter Quick, one time soldier, as you so correctly surmised, but now making ends meet in the wool trade.”

“You had cause to be at Holbeach?”

Quick shook his head. “I had hoped to discuss this year’s fleeces but found the house besieged and was informed by a soldier that the traitors responsible for the attempt on the king’s life were holed up within. In the circumstances it did not strike me as the most profitable port of call for a man in my trade.”

“And I trust you are no friend of the Catholic?”

“I care not which religion a man chooses to secure his entry into heaven but when it comes to assassination and treachery in the name of God, then that is a different matter.”

Noyce had spent the whole time studying Quick. “You certainly do not meet the description of the men we are seeking. In which case we shall let you pass. We shall not rest until we have brought each and every one of the plotters to justice. No matter where they hide, I shall find them. But be warned, sir, this is no time to be seen expressing sympathy towards Papists.”

“Your words shall be heeded, sir. As for your searches, I wish you well and would now be pleased to be let by. I have lost business already today and can ill afford losing any more.”

As Quick rode away the relief of evading capture quickly evaporated, and to his alarm there remained an ominous sense of entrapment. It took him only a little time more to realize that his involvement in the affair was far from over. With the tenacious Noyce now on the plotter’s trail, it could only be a matter of time before those not killed or captured at Holbeach were taken, and any incriminating materials in their possession recovered. Paramount among these concerns were those blasted priests and the plotter’s treasury. If Noyce and his men reached them before he did, then all his efforts thus far would be in vain. He had no option but to ignore his own advice and ride towards where the sound of their guns might soon be heard.

“All of this is your handiwork?” asked Quick of their new surroundings. The move had been as sudden as it had been unexpected. Once satisfied that the way was clear, Owen had led them in an early dawn dash from their hiding place to the nearby kitchen, where the removal of the stone slab beneath the cooking hearth revealed the entrance to a tunnel.

Owen’s shake of the head was barely perceptible in the lamplight. “I cannot claim credit. This is an old drain, built to carry water from the moat which once surrounded the house. They filled in the ditch long ago but this was left behind.”

Out of sight, out of mind, thought Quick; if only the same rule applied to them. The moat may have long gone but the tunnel was still damp, and in places water trickled through the green slime covering the walls.

Owen knew full well that if they were to stand any chance of escaping the house, then the tunnel was their only hope. With Noyce on the job it would be only a matter of time before their hiding place was discovered and, with or without him on their scent, Quick was only too happy to leave the confines of those dreadful walls. They continued their passage for what seemed an age, before the closely bonded bricks gave way to timber walls. “I dug this part,” said Owen. “Surfacing at the end of the original drain would place you in open ground, so I extended it.”

They had not been in the wooden portion of the tunnel long when progress came to a halt. Owen climbed a short distance up a ladder and opened a trapdoor just wide enough to let in a chink of light and to allow him to check the way out was clear.

The trapdoor was concealed within the earth floor of a smithy. The blacksmith was absent, but the coals in his forge were content enough to give off a gentle glow without him. Owen closed the hatch while Quick took in his surroundings. Dozens of horseshoes, great and small, were hanging from nails in the beams above their heads; the middle of the floor was occupied by an anvil resting its heavy weight on a block of wood, and the many tools of the blacksmith’s trade were scattered about.

Placing the bag of coins on the anvil Quick crossed to a window and, peering out, was relieved to see nothing more than an empty yard, overlooked by a few ramshackle sheds. The tunnel had put a good musket shot between them and the house, but he would have been even happier to see a pair of horses tethered close by. The best hope seemed to rest with the long building on the other side of the yard, which from the halved doors looked to be a stable.

“There are still two men in the house,” said Owen.

“I think there will be a good few more than two in there now.”

“I mean the priests, Mr Quick. The men who accompanied me in the flight from Holbeach House.”

Quick let the sacking drop back across the window. “Do they have coin, or any other materials of importance with them?”

“They have nothing but food and drink with them, and precious little of that. All of the money was left in my charge. Its presence seemed to make them uncomfortable.”

“They would learn to feel more at home with it as bishops,” said Quick, trying not to let his relief at the answer show. “But there will be no chance of promotion now. You know as well as I that they will be taken before long. We must look to our own salvation, which I fear is far from assured.”

Owen was standing beside the anvil and casually brushing his fingers across the crescentic ridges created by the coins in the bag. “Could we not buy their liberty? This was intended to finance a rebellion, to pay for the taking of lives. Could it not be put to a better use and pay for their lives?”

In what appeared to be an almost involuntary action Quick pressed down on the bellows and momentarily excited the coals in the forge. “Silver might help a man remain at liberty,” he said, watching the flames die away before pressing down again. “It will fix safe passage at sea or secure victuals enough for the voyage, but it will not buy back liberty once lost, at least not when the shackles have been fastened around the limbs of a failed assassin of the king.” He pressed the bellows once more before stepping towards the anvil. “But I am afraid there is another reason why your friend’s captors will not be receiving their thirty pieces of silver.” With that he removed the bag from Owen’s caress. “The coins are coming with me.”

Owen took a step back as though offended. “But my instructions were to ensure that the money be put to the service of our cause.”

“That cause is lost.”

Owen looked confused. “We do not know that. Others may have made good their escape. We should decide together to what use the money could be put.”

“Believe me, Mr Owen, the cause is lost. I saw some killed and others taken at Holbeach House, and today the same is going to happen here. As you said, this money was to finance a rebellion. With the survival of the king there will be no rebellion, and so the money will go along with me.”

“Without authority such an act would be thievery. Is that what you are, Mr Quick, a common thief? You arrived in our company late and seemed to be a stranger to all. Did you join us merely so that you might profit from the failure of the exercise? There is money enough there to make you a very rich man, Mr Quick.”

“If I was a thief, I would have killed you before now.”

“I do not believe you would have, sir, not while you needed me to get you out of the house.”

Quick recalled the lengths to which he had gone to keep the searchers away from Owen. “Let us not debate who got who out of the house. I have been tasked with the recovery of those coins. They are to be returned to the donor unspent, that is all.”

“So you are an agent of the Spanish?”

“Yes, but not those of whom you are thinking.”

“I do not understand. The Spanish provided the funds for the rising. Those are silver reales in that bag. How can you talk of — ”

There was a noise from the yard. Quick guessed it to be the scrape of a spur against a cobblestone. He put his forefinger to his lips and gestured for Owen to conceal himself beside the brick chimney. Dashing to the window he looked out to see two soldiers, muskets canted over their shoulders, wandering in a casual fashion across the yard. They were checking the buildings for fugitives; one would wait by the door while the other entered briefly, before returning with a shake of the head. A glance at Quick’s face as he moved away from the window was all Owen needed to know that their prospects had taken a down-turn. Any uncertainty about how bad things were was immediately dispelled when he was ordered to reopen the trapdoor.

“We are to return to the house?”

“We can hide in the tunnel while they search this place.”

“But we won’t be able to properly conceal the lid from below,” said Owen, as ever the perfectionist.

“It is a risk we must take, now get the cursed thing open.”

With his feet on the ladder Owen began his short descent, but his head had barely disappeared from view when, like a Jack-in-a-box, it popped back up into the room. “There are men in the tunnel!” he gasped, as he cleared the hole.

“Noyce,” spat Quick. “He has found the entrance. The man lives up to his reputation, damn him.”

There could be no doubting it. Quick, who was now lying on the floor and peering into the tunnel, could see a lantern moving towards them, perhaps half way along the tunnel. His head was barely clear of the void when a shot rang out. With the trapdoor slammed shut he dashed to the anvil. Owen saw his intent and, without bidding, joined him to lift the heavy lump of iron. With the anvil lowered on to the closed trap door both men, anticipating the arrival of men below them, stood back. The move was a wise one, for, moments later, a ball exploded through the timber and embedded itself in the roof.

“One door closes,” said Quick, as he returned to the window.

“And another door opens; isn’t that how the proverb goes? I see only one other door. Are you really intending to go out there?”

“We have no choice. There are still very few men nearby. But we have to move quickly; news will be on its way out from the tunnel.” Quick checked his weapons — the pair of horse pistols he had been careful to carry from the house. As he prepared them for firing, the door bowed inwards, the impact pushing out clouds of dust from between the boards. But it didn’t give.

“Break it down,” barked a voice from the outside.

There was a flash and a crack from Quick’s pistol and a cry of pain from the man in front of the door, followed by the receding clatter of boots on cobbles. The return of fire was not long in coming. Musket-balls thudded into the outside wall, some of them punching narrow shafts of light into the building before bouncing off the back wall.

It was clear from the volume of incoming fire that more men had arrived in the yard. Quick let go another shot and made to reload his pistols, only to discover that there were just two more lead balls in his pouch. If their chances of escape were poor before, they were almost non-existent now. He returned his attention to the contents of the smithy.

“There is a crucible over there, which means there must be a shot-mould also.”

Owen began to search a bench and its attendant shelves, rooting through tools and all manner of smithing paraphernalia. “Here it is, and also some lead,” he said, handing over a fist-sized ingot.

With one hand working the bellows — forcefully this time — Quick continued to observe the movements of the men in the yard. There were many more of them now, some of them probably from the tunnel, from which there was little sign of activity. His next instruction came as a shock to Owen, even in their extraordinary circumstances. “Empty the coins into the crucible and put it on the coals.”

“But you mean the lead sir, surely?”

Quick threw him a determined glance. “No, the coins, put the coins in the crucible. Do it now!”

“You have seen the devil out there, is that it. You need a silver bullet to kill him?”

“Something like that, now do it.” Whether the unflappable Owen had spoken in jest or not, the reality wasn’t that far from the truth, for Quick had just seen Noyce arrive with his men.

Owen reluctantly righted the upturned crucible and commenced to empty the coins into it, there was just a trickle at first, as though someone had cut a hole in a purse.

“All of them,” yelled Quick.

The choke on the bag was released and a shower of silver fell into the bowl. Using a pair of tongs, Owen manoeuvred the heavily laden vessel into the coals, which were now glowing like the interior of a volcano thanks to Quick’s continued effort with the bellows.

A second shot was delivered from the window, leaving Quick no option but to abandon the bellows while he reloaded with his last remaining shot.

“You said you were an agent of the Spanish,” said Owen, picking up on their interrupted conversation.

“I am an agent in the service of his Catholic Majesty King Phillip of Spain,” he said, dropping in a ball and ramming it down on to the powder. “His Majesty has no connection to those financing your rebellion.”

“But surely they were members of the Royal court? I heard Sir Robert say as much.”

Quick shook his head. “The men with whom your friends had dealings are a rebel group acting outside of the court.” He took another shot with the pistol and grimaced as a ball passed through thin timber close to his head. “They are nobles who lost riches and influence when England and Spain signed a peace treaty not two years past. Their intention was to implicate the Spanish court in the plot and, in so doing, bring about another war.”

Owen was stirring the half-melted coins with a knife, pushing the mass around the crucible as though it were thick gruel in a cooking pot. “And what then is your role in all of this?”

An hour ago Quick had no intention of explaining his mission, but the prospect of shared death draws men closer together than even the smallest of priest holes. “I have orders to remove all physical evidence of the plotters’ dealings with the Spanish. At Holbeach House I destroyed the documents, and here,” he waved a pistol towards the crucible, “you have just destroyed the last of that evidence.”

Owen stared into the crucible, where the silver was now fully liquefied. “Of course, the coins. They are Spanish!”

“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.