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  A guard in the White Tower told her that Hopkins was in the armoury, so she followed him down a set of winding steps into a subterranean chamber. The walls were lined with racks of swords, billhooks, pikes and pistols, and a tang of metal hung in the air.

  The soldier pointed to a door leading off from the main room. His hushed voice echoed around the whitewashed walls. ‘The General is yonder, in one of his reflective moods.’

  Hazel nodded her thanks, wondering if a reflective Hopkins was to her advantage or not, because she had gathered a semblance of an idea on how she might, maybe, possibly, get him to do what she wanted.

  After straightening her uniform, she marched through the door. The weapons here looked older, obsolete: matchlocks with ornate firing mechanisms, swords even taller than she was, and medieval halberds stacked together like sheaves of wheat. Lamplight flickered off a line of battered breastplates hanging from the wall.

  She found Hopkins at the far end of the room, looking at a magnificent suit of armour. ‘Apprentice Lowe reporting for duty, General,’ she said, standing to attention.

  ‘With hammer and heat a man may bend steel into such grand things as this.’ Hopkins turned to her with a wry smile. ‘If only people were so . . . malleable.’

  ‘So Murrell still has not spoken up?’

  Hopkins shook his head.

  ‘I’m sure the Oven will take its toll soon,’ Hazel said, seeing an opportunity to steer the conversation in the direction she required. ‘Actually, General, I wanted—’

  ‘This was King Henry the Eighth’s armour,’ Hopkins said. ‘The last of England’s great kings, before his daughter, Elizabeth, ushered in a new age of so-called tolerance.’ He spat the last word out like poison. ‘Did you know that Henry had two of his wives beheaded for witchcraft? Some say the old King was hounded to his grave by their vengeful ghosts.’

  And what about you, General? Hazel thought bitterly. Do the ghosts of those you’ve killed haunt your dreams?

  ‘Does our work today involve Nicolas Murrell, General?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course it does. Time is pressing now the date of his execution is set.’ Hopkins ran his thumb over the blade of a battleaxe, then began to pace around the chamber. ‘We’ve been getting a lot of valuable information from a young lad Murrell held captive for a while.’

  He means David, Hazel thought.

  ‘And this lad has told us that Murrell had been treating with a demon prince called Baal,’ Hopkins continued with a shake of his head. ‘He opened a portal between our world and that of the demons. We in the Order knew Murrell was dangerous, but to carry out such a reckless act – the hubris of it takes my breath away.’

  Hazel knew all this. Indeed, she had witnessed Murrell open the howling, seething gateway into the Underworld, and watched helpless as the demon Baal had snatched her mother and dragged her down into the depths of his domain. These memories haunted her every waking moment, and her every troubled sleep.

  She affected a look of horror. ‘How awful that a man would do such a thing. What was Murrell bargaining with this . . . Baal . . . for?’

  ‘The boy, David, doesn’t remember. It seems he was bitten by one of Murrell’s demonic familiars, and the poison administered is affecting his memory. My best apothecaries are trying to cure him but they say there is little hope. They know nothing of demon poisons.’

  Hazel swallowed. So David was still suffering from the spider-demon Spindle’s poison. And if it was eroding his memories, what would it cause next? Madness? Death? Guilt gnawed at her. If I can get Ma back, she might be able to cure him.

  Their circuit of the chamber had brought them back to King Henry’s armour. ‘I must find out what Murrell’s bargain was,’ Hopkins murmured, looking up at the grilled visor. ‘What promises were made? What unholy bargains struck?’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ve had him brought out of the Oven for another interrogation that I shall lead. I can only hope the heat and discomfort have softened him up enough to talk, but I’m not too optimistic about that.’ Hopkins took a curved blade from his pocket and held it up to the light. ‘If only there was a way I could open up his skull, poke into his brains and expose his thoughts to the light.’

  Hazel decided now was the time to test the waters. ‘General, may I speak plainly on this matter of Murrell, and his stubborn refusal to talk?’

  Hopkins sat on a bench by the wall and began to scrape his blade under each already spotless fingernail. ‘You may.’

  ‘My father says that madness is doing the same thing again and again and expecting different results.’

  Hopkins frowned at her. ‘That sounds like impertinence, William.’

  ‘My apologies, General,’ Hazel said, with a deferential bow. ‘What I mean is that you’ve been administering to Murrell personally, haven’t you? With your clerks and scribes present to record his every word?’

  ‘I have. He’s an important prisoner.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Hazel snapped her fingers. ‘And he knows his importance and the information he withholds from you is what keeps him alive.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Hopkins said slowly. ‘What of it?’

  Hazel leaned towards the General, close enough to see a raw-pink rash spreading under his collar. ‘So what if we made him feel less important? Give him the impression that you had better things to do than talk to him?’

  ‘It would certainly hurt his twisted sense of pride,’ Hopkins said, running a hand down his chin.

  ‘And perhaps be enough to coax him into giving up some information to regain your interest.’

  ‘Mmm, I remain to be convinced . . .’

  Hazel felt her chance slipping away. She spoke quickly and urgently. ‘If you can get Murrell to open up even a fraction, to give you any hint of his plans or knowledge about Baal, it might be enough for you to argue your case to Lord Cromwell about keeping him alive a while longer to find out more.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps . . .’ A slow smile spread over Hopkins’ round face. ‘And that would certainly stick in Stearne’s craw.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be livid,’ Hazel said, daring to feel a flash of hope. ‘I know it’s a long shot, but so far none of your efforts have got him to talk. So this has got to be worth a try, don’t you think?’

  Hopkins sat in the shadow of the King’s armour, twirling his blade between his fingers. ‘Very well. You can speak to him, but not for long. He’s a dangerous man.’

  24

  HOPKINS’ BROTHER

  One witch can be made to give up another,

  and she another, and she yet another.

  A Forest of Gallows by Albrecht Prinz

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ Bramley squeaked from Titus’s top pocket. ‘Surely there’s some other way?’

  ‘Not that I can think of,’ Titus said, striding down a road of mean dwellings on the outskirts of Southwark. ‘We know the killer is wearing a plague doctor’s uniform, so the next stage of our investigation naturally leads us to their Guild. I want a good root about. See what’s what.’

  ‘But why the deception? Can’t you just go in and ask your questions?’

  ‘Of course not! The Guild of Plague Doctors is notoriously secretive – they’re not going to give information to just anybody. So I need to spin them a lie.’

  ‘But they won’t believe you,’ Bramley said, whiskers quivering with fear. ‘Posing as Hopkins’ brother? We don’t even know if he has a brother!’

  ‘That doesn’t matter a jot. The bigger the lie the more likely people are to buy it – as long as you sell it with utter and complete conviction.’ He slowed down as they reached the end of the road. ‘There it is: the Guildhall of the Plague Doctors.’

  Ahead, standing alone in a weed-infested courtyard, was a large, crooked building of sagging timbers, brown plaster and dirty mullioned windows. A sign in the shape of a beaked mask hung over the door.

  ‘Look familiar?’ Titus asked.

  ‘Yes
,’ Bramley whispered. ‘That’s what the demon wore over its head.’

  ‘Good. Then we’re on the right track.’ Titus pushed Bramley down into this pocket. ‘Come along then, Master Mouse, let us consort with the plague doctors.’ He strode up to the door and threw it open without knocking.

  Inside was a small, shabby reception room with several doors and a rickety staircase leading up to the next floor. Two men stood in the corner. One, red-faced and sweating, was in the process of removing his leather plague-doctor robe. His beaked mask lay flattened on the table beside him. The other wore a rather unkempt periwig and a faded yellow frock coat. Both men stopped talking, outraged at the interruption.

  Undeterred, Titus addressed the periwigged man. ‘Are you the Guild Master?’

  ‘I am,’ the man replied, puffing up indignantly. ‘And who are you to barge into my Hall—?’

  ‘You should know who I am,’ Titus growled. ‘Indeed, you should be expecting my visit. I had my office send a missive to you last week.’

  ‘Missive? I don’t recall . . .’ The Guild Master rallied himself. ‘Look here, my man, just who the devil are you?’

  Titus stood up straight, his impressive six-foot-four-inches towering over the Guild Master. ‘I am Lord Frederick Hopkins. Brother and confidant of the Witch Hunter General himself, and I come this day from the Tower.’

  The effect of this statement was dramatic and immediate. The Guild Master paled. ‘H-Hopkins’ brother?’ he said.

  The other man, now free of his robe, muttered ‘Excuse me, sirs’ and scurried up the stairs.

  Titus glowered. ‘Are you not in the habit of reading your missives?’

  ‘I’m sure I would have remembered . . .’ he replied, quaking like gelatine. ‘Perhaps we should discuss this in my office, Lord Hopkins?’

  ‘Very well,’ Titus said, feeling the warmth of Bramley giving out a pulse of admiring magic.

  The Guild Master showed him into a poky room lined with black ledgers, each marked with a month and a year: the Books of the Dead as recorded by the Plague Doctors through the decades. Titus swept past, sat down behind the desk and said nothing, leaving the Guild Master standing helplessly adrift on the other side.

  ‘Your honourable missive, your illustrious visit,’ he gabbled. ‘To what does it relate?’

  ‘Troubling rumours about your Guild, the conduct of your men, and you.’ Titus took off his hat, keeping his glare fixed on the Guild Master. ‘Black magic. Witchcraft.’

  The Guild Master looked about ready to faint. ‘W–witchcraft?’ he said, his voice barely audible. ‘I don’t under—’

  ‘Death on your streets, this month just passed. Murder!’ Titus stood up and slammed a fist on to the desk, causing the Guild Master to utter a little cry. ‘Young children found with their faces contorted with fear. Have you heard about this?’

  ‘Yes, but I took it to be idle gossip . . . superstitious nonsense . . .’

  Titus shook his head. ‘Not so. I have seen the bodies, and the marks left on them point to sorcery of the foulest kind.’

  ‘B-but even if that’s the case, begging your pardon, what has it to do with me?’

  ‘Because there was a witness to the latest deadly deed –’ Titus paused for effect – ‘and he says the perpetrator wore the uniform . . . of a plague doctor.’

  The Guild Master collapsed on to a chair by the wall, gasping, his pallor turning green.

  ‘The witness was most adamant in his recollections,’ Titus continued mercilessly, ‘and the evidence suggests that the killer resides in your Guild.’

  ‘No, no . . . None of my men, I swear . . .’

  ‘I have the authority and the inclination to throw every man-jack of you at the mercy of the interrogators – they’ll loosen a few tongues.’ Titus strode to the door and then paused. ‘Unless you can furnish me with information to point me in a more focused direction? Think hard, Guild Master, and do not lie.’

  The Guild Master ran a handkerchief over his greasy brow, his eyes roving feverishly around the room as if seeking an answer written on the walls. ‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘One of my men has not reported to work for weeks. No one’s seen hide nor hair of him.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Three weeks, a month perhaps.’

  ‘So just before the killings began.’ Titus narrowed his eyes. ‘This man – was he especially tall?’

  ‘Yes, yes! Abnormally so.’

  ‘And he wore the uniform – robe, beaked mask?’

  The Guild Master nodded.

  ‘You’ve earned yourself a reprieve,’ Titus said. ‘Now give me his name and address, quickly now. And do not mention this to anyone. If you do, I’ll come back here with my brother.’

  25

  A HARD WON MEETING

  The Underworld rings with a constant

  symphony of destruction.

  The Five Magics by Nikolas Menza

  ‘I’m having second thoughts about this,’ Hopkins said.

  Hazel and the Witch Hunter General stood outside the same cell they had spoken to Murrell in before.

  ‘I understand you’re worried about me,’ Hazel said. ‘But sending a mere apprentice like me in to talk to Murrell is the best way to make him think he’s no longer important to you.’

  Hopkins shook his head. ‘He’s a dangerous man, and you’re just a child . . .’

  ‘I’m the son of a rat-catcher, and I’ve dealt with vermin like him my whole life.’ She looked Hopkins in the eye. ‘Please, General, let me prove myself.’

  Hazel stopped herself from flinching when Hopkins rested a soft hand on her shoulder and leaned closer. ‘Don’t stay in there long. Just needle his pride by making him think I’ve got something better to do than talk to him.’

  Wrestling with the fact that a man as cruel as Hopkins actually cared about her, Hazel said, ‘I understand, General. I’ll be careful.’

  Hopkins stepped to one side. The guard opened the door and Hazel marched in. The door clanged shut behind her, blocking all sound from outside. She shivered. The stone walls swallowed the lantern light and gave nothing but damp in return.

  No chair for Murrell this time; strung up by his wrists with a rope running through a loop in the ceiling, and with barely enough slack to allow his toes to touch the floor, he slowly raised his head and regarded Hazel with sunken, pain-filled eyes. He looked much worse than before, and Hazel felt a rush of pity.

  ‘Well well,’ he said in a voice as cracked as old china. ‘Hazel Hooper. In what guise are you visiting me today? As witch, or Witch Hunter?’

  ‘As a witch, of course!’ Hazel hissed. ‘All this –’ she tugged on her uniform – ‘is so I can talk to you about Ma, and how you’re going to help me get her back.’

  Murrell smiled. ‘If I still had my hat, I would tip it to you. It seems your resourcefulness knows no bounds.’

  Hazel hurried over to where the rope was secured to the wall. ‘I’m going to loosen this so you can stand properly.’ Murrell groaned as she let out some slack and then retied the knot. ‘Better?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ He swivelled round to face her. ‘How did you arrange to speak to me alone like this?’

  ‘I convinced Hopkins that making you feel less important might loosen your tongue,’ Hazel said, circling the cell.

  ‘Clever girl. You can come closer, you know. I won’t bite. After all, you’re the only friend I have in this hellhole.’

  ‘We’re not friends,’ Hazel said coldly. But she sidled towards him regardless, taking a flask from her pocket and giving him a few mouthfuls of small beer.

  ‘Ally, then,’ Murrell replied, licking the last drops of liquid from his parched lips. ‘Old adversaries forced to work together, yes? Help each other out?’

  ‘The only help I can give you is by allowing you to do the right thing by my mother,’ Hazel said. ‘Now tell me how I can get to her. Quickly – Hopkins might come at any moment . . .’

  ‘Thorn told me that’s
what you wanted, but I’d already guessed when your mouse came to see me.’ His voice became more urgent. ‘Listen, Hazel, you can’t just recite a few magic words and simply stroll into the heart of the demon world.’

  ‘I know that,’ Hazel said, casting a nervous glance towards the door. ‘I’ve been reading all Titus’s books—’

  ‘Reading a book is not the same as understanding it,’ Murrell interrupted. ‘You’re not a scholar, you’re a child who’s spent most of her life closeted away in the forest. You don’t have any idea of the dangers you’ll be dealing with. But I do.’ He shook his chains. ‘Get me out of this place and I’ll open the demon gate for you and I’ll accompany you into the Underworld – it’s your best hope of getting your mother back safely.’

  Hazel’s skin glowed with an angry flush of magic. ‘And what of the walls, the gates, the guards?’ she said, her voice shaking with frustration. ‘I can’t help you escape, Murrell, you know that.’

  ‘I think a witch who can infiltrate the Order can do anything she turns her mind to. I don’t want to die in here, Hazel. I promise to help if only you would set me free!’

  For the first time Hazel saw fear in his eyes, and she realized that if she could, if there was even the slimmest hope of success, she would try to save him from the terrible fate she knew awaited him at the hands of the Order. But there wasn’t. It was impossible.

  ‘I cannot,’ she said, looking away to hide her shame.

  Murrell sagged in his chains. ‘Then go.’

  ‘Please, Nicolas, do the right thing. Not for me, but my mother. You still care about her, don’t you?’

  ‘Sending you alone into the Underworld after her is a death sentence – how can I add that to my already troubled conscience? Don’t you see? Everything I touch falls into ruins. My plans, my Coven, all gone.’