I

London 1666.

A downpour of rain swept through the streets of Covent Garden, as the sun set on a bleak day. Two men sat in the carriage of a wagon that trotted through the neighbourhoods, their destination unbeknown to the coachman. One was dressed impeccably; he was not of nobility but of military, the other was a larger muscular man, his appearance was scruffier, resembling that of a hired brute.

“Here will do,” the smaller of the two, called out from the back.

The driver pulled up and the two climbed out, instantly drenched by the rain. The brute placed coins in the coachman’s hand, while the other placed his index finger to his own lip, the driver smiled back at the generosity with a knowing smile and off he went. The pair slowly walked down St Martin’s Lane, ignoring any chill from the rain. They arrived at a house, walking calmly down the path and to the door, the brute took no hesitation, knocking as loud as possible. After a moment the door was opened and looking back at them a greying man in his early sixties, dressed in dark trousers and a bright white uncreased shirt, he peered over the frames of his glasses, taking a good look at those that would disturb him.

“What do you want at this godawful time?” he uttered with contempt.

“If we may, I have an urgent matter to attend to with your good self, Mister Carew Raleigh,” asked the smaller man.

He eyed them up and down, not an ounce of trust in his bones.

“Well, I have no matters to discuss with you,” he snarled, attempting to shut the door.

A boot from the brute stopped him from doing so and with a shove the door was pushed further open and the two entered without invitation.

“What the devil do you want, I have no money if that is what you require,” Carew told them his words turning nervous. “Take anything of value I will not hinder you.”

The smaller one looked at the wares, they were worth money, but theft was not why they were here.

“You belittle us with your words,” he replied. “We are not thieves, what we want is for your council and for your help.”

He took of his hat and outstretched a hand towards Carew, who mulled over shaking it.

“Please Mister Raleigh my name is Jonathan Sinclair, I bid you no harm.”

Reluctantly he shook his wet hand.

“I am not a politician anymore,” Carew replied, with a slight stutter. “What council can I possibly give to two strangers?”

“We are looking for something a particular journal your father used on his travels; we have reason to believe it was entrusted to you,” Sinclair explained. “We are willing to pay a very handsome price.”

“With due respect, anything belonging to my father would be a personal artefact and one I would not be willing to share,” replied Carew. “Not that I have it in my belongings.”

A wry smile appeared across the face of Sinclair, who looked round the hall and walked towards a room.

“This is a beautiful house Mister Raleigh; it would be a terrible shame if anything was to happen to it!” Sinclair purposed.

“Are you threatening me?” snapped back the older man. “I know men in very powerful places.”

“As do I,” was Sinclair’s immediate response. “The men who asked me to come here are very wealthy indeed. Now where is it?”

Carew’s unwilling stance did not budge, he would not be intimidated.

“What do you want with it anyway?” he questioned. “The things written inside my father’s journals and diaries were incoherent ramblings of a man clearly obsessed with fantasy.”

Sinclair walked towards a large bookcase and ran his finger over the spines of some of the books, some were works of science, others of myths and legends.

“On the contrary, Sir Walter found what he was looking for but kept it secret, even after his arrest,” Sinclair told him, turning back. “Your father was working for Elizabeth and John Dee. We believe before his death Dee gave instructions to your father to finish what he had started.”

Carew moved away from them and poured himself a glass of whisky, he took a sip.

“A fascinating story,” Carew mocked. “My father was murdered because of the biddings he done for that witch of a queen and here you are nearly fifty years later believing in the existence of fantastical myths.”

“I have been polite with you, but my clients have made it clear to me to do whatever is necessary,” a stern Sinclair voiced. “Your wife is at a show, we can wait for her return, maybe then your lips will be more obedient.”

Carew threw the glass at Sinclair, who ducked it, before the old man surged towards him, his hands gripped around the neck of Sinclair, the brute grabbed the old man and threw him to one side, with him landing in heap, Carew struggled onto his knees.

“You go near my wife, and I will kill you with my very own hands.”

“I beg to differ, you are a weak aged man and one that would barely throttle a dying dog,” Sinclair told him, rubbing the red marks on his neck. “We will find the journal with or without you still breathing.”

“You are a liar, you two are nothing but common thieves,” he snapped at them. “The authorities will have their say and I shall watch with glee as they stretch your necks!”

Sinclair squatted before Carew, “I do not think you understand, the authorities will care very little about the words from a madman, now if you please hand it over.”

Sinclair offered his hand to help up Carew, who in turn slapped it away and heaved his ageing bones up. Tired and weary, Carew walked to his study and opened a draw, from out of the desk came a pistol.

“I do not have what you require,” he sneered at them. “I made sure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands, I promised that the vermin would never get their paws on it.”

“That’s a fearless gesture pointing that at me,” Sinclair smiled at him, “I do not fear death, I made peace with God long ago, have you?”

Carew pulled the trigger as the brute stepped in front of Sinclair taking a blast in the shoulder. Carew grabbed a candle stick and swung it, the brute, bleeding, slapped it away punching the old man in the face, he tripped falling backwards and smacked his head on the fireplace. Sinclair wandered over to him, a pool of blood slowing trickling from the wound.

“I curse your name Sinclair and all who follow you,” uttered Carew, the words turning to a murmur.

“It did not have to be this way,” replied Sinclair. “We wanted to work with you.”

Carew’s eyes grew heavier as he mumbled incoherently.

“I must make my leave, try to make it look like a robbery,” Sinclair told the brute, who in turn nodded. “I’ll see you back in Crawley.”

Outside the rain had stopped and not too far away another carriage trotted to a halt, Sinclair hurried over to it, got inside and sat next to a man.

“Lord Allam, the old coot is dead,” Sinclair told him.

“An unfortunate circumstance but nevertheless do you, have it?”

“I’m afraid he did not have it in his belongings,” Sinclair told him. “I believe the rumours to be true that George Starkey continued the research.”

“And he is also dead, no thanks to you,” the man replied. “What leads do we have now.”

Sinclair scowled at his blame for the death of Starkey.

“I was informed that an Irishman called Robert Boyle learnt under his tutelage.”

“Then we must pay him a visit.”

The carriage tottered off with the two inside, as the sound of smashing glass inside Carew’s house could be heard.

Gasping for breath and being chased, a man fled for his life through the slums and paved streets of London. He ran past inns, harlots and street vagrants, pushing anyone who stood in his way over. His pursuers wore the King’s colours and were determined to catch him. The man was running in the direction of the Thames, before finally being cut off by two more of the King’s guards.

“Hand it over, ya ain’t got nowhere else ta go!” shouted one.

The man looked behind and could see the others catching up, a pistol was aimed at him.

“I said hand it over!”

Not wanting to give himself up and knowing that execution would follow he crashed through a door of a shop next to him and then out the back. He ran as fast as he could down an alleyway, undeterred by the guards continuing to chase, a bullet echoed out just missing him. They watched as he climbed over a wall and through a back door of a bakery. He rushed to the front, forcing open door, only to be greeted with a vicious right hook from someone standing on the opposite side of the door. The man fell and tried to regain his composure as Jonathan Sinclair walked in, rubbing his gloved fist.

“I’m very disappointed in you Clarence,” he snarled, with two more of the King’s guards following behind. “Now be a good boy and hand over the journal.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he panted.

Sinclair pulled out his sword and rested the tip against his shoulder blade, the sharp point piercing through the material.

“We do not tolerate spies, especially those that steal,” the tip scratched his skin, as he continued to press.

He remained silent despite the sword passing into his shoulder, the pain visible on his face. More of the King’s men joined inside the bakery.

“Mister Hemingway, search him,” Sinclair ordered, pulling his sword away.

Two guards grabbed Clarence and pulled him up, while the one called Hemingway searched his clothes, a smile appeared on the captive’s face.

“What’s so funny?” Sinclair asked him, feeling he was being taunted.

“I don’t have it,” he smirked. “I am but the decoy.”

Sinclair looked at the rest of the men in the room, before turning back to Clarence.

“Where is the journal?!” he roared.

“It’ll be on a ship by now, how easily fooled you and your friends are!” he chuckled. “You will never lay your hands on the ‘Heart of God’”

Sinclair looked at the rest of the men in the room, before turning back to Clarence, he struck him across the face knocking him down. Clarence was pulled back up and responded by spitting in Sinclair’s face.

“I will watch you hang for this,” he told his captive, wiping the saliva from his cheek.

“But you still won’t find it,” answered back Clarence. “Your life will be remembered as a failure, just as Starkey foresaw.”

“Smart mouth for a dead man.”

He pushed Clarence away, who landed near a lit fire. Clarence grabbed a knife that lay on a table.

“I hope hell has a place for you!” he yelled charging at Sinclair.

The stabbing motion sliced across the side of his body; Sinclair’s response was a back hander that smacked across Clarence’s face. He then composed himself and charged again but this time was met with a sword through the midriff from the guard Alexander Hemingway. Clarence backed away wincing in pain but still managed a grin, his foot stumbled close to the fire and within a moment the flames had climbed his leg. Clarence screamed in pain as the fire engulfed him and he fell towards a table, setting that alight. Sinclair watched on before turning his back at the final screams.

“Sir, shouldn’t we put out the flames?” asked Hemingway.

“Let it burn! We have to get to the docks now or everything we have done up and until now will be for nothing,” replied Sinclair.

The guards looked on as the fire climbed the walls.

“But sir…” Hemingway tried to reason.

“Enough Alexander, it’s a small fire, hardly the end of the world!” he snapped back. “Now let us begone!”

They left the bakery and walked away through the street as the smoke and fire slowly swallowed the shop. Not far down the road a carriage pulled up and a man in evening attire went to get in, Sinclair grabbed him, pushing him to the ground.

“Oi, that was mine,” the man shouted.

“On the contrary, I believe it is mine, now,” he told him.

The man stood up and two of the King’s guards grabbed him, stopping him from doing anything. Sinclair climbed inside with Hemingway, before leaning back out.

“When you’ve taught that foul mouthed good-for-nothing a lesson, return to Lord Allam and inform him of what has happened!” sneered Sinclair. “Then have every godforsaken alchemist, philosopher, astronomer and propaganda merchant arrested and imprisoned, if that is what it takes to find what has happened to that journal.” He then turned towards the coachman. “The docks and if you wish to be paid, make it swift!”

The driver nodded and pulled tight on the reigns; the horses sped quickly through the streets. Sinclair looked back and could see the smoke rising quickly.

The Docks were not too far away, and the horses pulled up, with Sinclair wasting no time jumping out, closely followed by Hemingway.

“Find the harbour master and get him here now, I want to know the name of every ship that has left within the last few hours and all other ships seized.”

Hemingway, hesitated.

“Sir, that could take hours,” he responded.

“Alexander, I grow weary of your tone,” barked back Sinclair. “Did I ask for your opinion?”

Hemingway did as he was asked and ran towards the harbour master’s hut. Sinclair ran towards the docked ships, running straight into Barney ‘Barnacle’ Roberts a man with a limp who was swaying due to copious amounts of alcohol.

“Oi, watch it mate,” he shouted, as he was spun round with force. “Bungling landlubbers.”

Sinclair removed his pistol and threatened him with it, “what ships have left here in the last few hours!?”

It was a question Sinclair knew Barnacle would not be able to answer but he just wanted an excuse to vent out his frustrations.

Barnacle hiccupped and grinned, showing off his rotting teeth, “ya talkin’ to me? Go find some other salty dog with a loose tongue or do us all a favour and take a long walk into the Thames while carrying a heavy rock, savvy.”

Sinclair wrestled him to the ground and pushed the barrel up against his head.

“You are wasting my time and what very little you have left!”

“Time? Now that be something new ta me,” Barnacle laughed at him. “Pull the trigger ye’d be doing me a favour.”

Hemingway grabbed hold of Sinclair’s arm pulling him backwards.

“Sir, I have the harbour master.”

Sinclair’s finger itched on the trigger, before he relinquished his grip. He turned to look at the harbour master.

“I need to know every ship that left here in the last few hours,” Sinclair ordered, putting his pistol away.

“Every ship?” he answered. “I can check me ledger guvnor but ya know how it is, not every ship gets recorded.”

“Then you better know, or I will have you in shackles scraping at the walls in Newgate, like this miscreant here is about to find out.”

Sinclair followed the harbour master back towards his shack, as the fire seemed to rapidly grow in the distance. Hemingway looked out to sea, the journal was gone and surely was any chance of finding its secrets.