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Charlie could use. It might tell him what part of London the murderer came from.
    But Maria shook her head. ‘We threw it in the Thames.’
    Charlie was silent for a moment, knowing the next move should be to wherever the body lay. His mind drifted to the last time he had stood alone with a girl and he felt his cheeks redden.
    ‘Would it be easier if the murderer had taken some property?’ asked Maria, giving no indication she was thinking the same.
    ‘Yes.’ Charlie’s eyes were drawn to the hatch in the ceiling where he assumed the body lay. ‘It is goods I find. And from them people.’
    ‘So you would ask around and see who had bought up the stolen goods?’ asked Maria.
    ‘In a way. The way I find people out is not by what they sell but how they sell it.’
    Charlie frowned.
    ‘I think I should see the scene now. I mean not to offend you but I had rather not stay longer than I must in this house.’
    ‘Yes.’ Maria collected herself.
    A few little beds were arranged downstairs, presumably for the younger children and perhaps Maria herself.
    The uneasy feeling stirred again in the pit of his stomach.
    ‘Where is the rest of your family?’ he asked.
    ‘They have fled London,’ said Maria. ‘Father travelled with the children to an aunt in Clapham. To stay safe from plague.’
    ‘But you did not go with your family to refuge?’
    ‘No. I stayed to attend to . . . To this injustice.’
    For some reason, her choice of words sounded alarm bells in his mind.
    He looked back at Maria. She seemed so respectable. Was there something she wasn’t telling him?
    ‘I have the money,’ she said, sensing his sudden mistrust. ‘Here.’ Maria pulled out a purse and selected a guinea from its jangling contents. ‘For seeing the situation up there,’ she added, placing the coin meaningfully on the small table.
    Charlie looked away from the money and up towards the ceiling . Upstairs would be a further few bedrooms. And the body.
    ‘It is up that ladder,’ said Maria, pointing to the entrance to the second level. They both stood for a moment, looking at the opening .
    Charlie paused. A strong instinct was warning him not to go upstairs. He pushed it down, attributing it to the prospect of viewing gory remains. But every sense in his body was suddenly telling him to run as far and as fast as he could.
    Maria turned to face him, and her blue eyes had become dark with feeling.
    ‘Please,’ she said.
    Her devastation set his resolve. She’d lost a sister. The least he could do was try to help.
    ‘I know not what information I might give you,’ he said slowly. ‘But you have my word I will try my hardest to read the scene.’
    He took a step towards the ladder, forcing his legs to move. Then, bringing his lavender posy closer to his mouth he walked back towards the stair and began to climb. Think of the guinea , he muttered to himself. Behind him he heard Maria’s sigh of relief.
    ‘I will wait down here,’ she said. ‘I cannot bear to see the scene anew .’
    The words buzzed meaninglessly as a fresh flood of unease swept through Charlie. Maria’s good looks had helped blind him to the danger. But now reality was hitting him hard.
    His feet felt leaden as he took his first step onto the ladder, and then the next. He concentrated on the wooden rungs, the whorls and lines of the wood, polished to a dark shine by constant use. One hand followed the next, with the reluctant rest of him following on behind.

Chapter Seven
     
    The landlord of the Old Bell on Fleet Street gave his guest another uneasy glance. Plague doctors always made him nervous. But this one was worse than most.
    To begin with he’d not taken the time to remove his unwieldy beaked mask or take off the flat crystal goggles. Instead a portion of a pale neck had been unswaddled for eating while the disc eyes stared out over the table.
    Then there was the sheer size of him. The bulk beneath the canvas covering was so enormous the landlord found