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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Harry Lytle Chronicles
- Sprache: Englisch
July 1665. As the great plague rages rampant outside London's city walls, Harry Lytle returns after his trials and tribulations in The Sweet Smell of Decay to investigate the murder of the Earl of St. Albans. A grisly dinner-table death starts Harry off on the trail and it's not long before his familiar accomplice, Dowling the butcher, joins him on the case. Their master, Lord Arlington, tasks them with uncovering the name and motive of the Earl's murderer - but there will be plenty more deaths and scrapes for Harry before the name is revealed.
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Seitenzahl: 478
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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A Plague of Sinners
The Chronicles of Harry Lytle
PAUL LAWRENCE
For Ruth, Charlotte, Callum, Cameron and Ashleigh
Contents
Chapter One
HERMES TRISMEGISTUS UPON THE FIRST DECUMBITURE OF THE SICK
To him therefore that would either cure the sick or heal the lame, the position of heaven ought to be well considered and known.
Christian Anthology, by William Lilly, 1647
When Hedges fell face first into his dinner after giving birth to an almighty sneeze, the rest of us just sat and stared at the gravy dripping down the backs of his ears. We watched in silence, gaping at the back of his large unmoving head and the pieces of lamb and fish stuck in his hair. His mouth gaped open and a thin stream of sauce dribbled from one corner. Still we waited, willing him to blink, sit up again and wipe the food from his forehead.
I dined at the house of Oliver Willis and his glorious daughter Elizabeth. Why Willis invited Nathaniel Hedges to dinner was a mystery, for Hedges was not a popular man despite his virtue. He was a member of London’s College of Physicians, a prestigious body of wise men who admired themselves very much. Most medics had left London weeks before; only he remained behind, an act of bravery for which he needed regular watering.
The four of us sat together at one end of a table that could take eight. The table heaved beneath the weight of a plethora of steaming dishes: carp, lobster, salmon, rabbit, chicken and lamb. Long candles lit up bright new tapestries hung from the walls, country scenes full of yellows, reds and greens.
Elizabeth Willis sat straight-backed in a luminous dark-blue dress with fine silver braiding, bodice pulled tight, breasts perked up like little puddings. Her nose was small and straight, ears perfectly formed that a man might want to tickle them gently. She tended to Hedges’ thirst by asking if he did not fear contracting the disease himself. Shallow lines of concern writ clear upon her forehead and I desired to smooth them out with my manly fingers.
Hedges smiled toothily out of the left side of his face. ‘I take great care, madam. I place a nutmeg in my mouth as soon as I wake up and suck upon lozenges all day. I have a lozenge in my mouth right now.’ Which explained why the right side of his mouth did not move.
‘That is sufficient to protect you?’ asked Liz.
‘Also I take about with me a scuttle of coals onto which I throw quicklime, herbs and spices when I visit sick houses. This disperses the miasma.’ He nodded brightly, keen to dispense further wisdoms. ‘And in the evening I have a glass of sack to defeat any infection that may have penetrated my defences, and a plate of boiled meat and pickles to fortify my system for the next day.’
Liz opened her innocent eyes wider and sucked in her lower lip. ‘So, if every man in London were to suck nutmegs and lozenges, drink sack and eat boiled meat and pickles, then the plague would be thwarted?’
Hedges shook his fleshy head regretfully. ‘Coal is expensive these days. Not every man can afford it, nor nutmeg, sack nor boiled meat. The wealthy can, but the wealthy have gone. The poor cannot, but the poor remain.’
Liz’s speckled green eyes stayed wide. I took a slow, deep breath, for this was the mask behind which she cultivated private and mischievous thoughts, before releasing them upon unsuspecting recipients with brutal savagery.
Oliver Willis studied her closely from above his jutting chin. He changed the subject before his daughter could speak again. ‘Are you not contemplating leaving London, Harry?’
Not I. The plague raged rampant outside the city walls, not inside, and I wished to get to know Liz better. I pulled a sad face and attended to my plate. ‘The city’s finances are in a perilous state following the hard winter. The parishes have insufficient funds to support the sick and all depend on the guilds.’
Hedges scowled so hard I could barely see his eyes beneath his hirsute brow. I had unwittingly deprived him of his eminence. ‘You work for Sir Thomas Player?’ he growled.
‘I work for the King,’ I replied carefully, ‘and for Lord Arlington, and for the moment for Sir Thomas, aye, at Lord Arlington’s request.’
Hedges placed his hands flat on the table and pushed down hard. ‘Might you then remind Sir Thomas I have not been paid since I was appointed?’
‘He has a fine eye for detail,’ I said, ‘and juggles the city finances with sensitivity and wise judgement. What funds he collects he dispenses to those cases most needy.’
‘Aye, so,’ Hedges blustered, torn now between the role of munificent saviour of London’s poorest, and that of harshly treated creditor. He sat back and shrugged his shoulders like it was no matter.
Liz turned her sharp senses upon me, the clearing of her throat a sure sign her curiosity was pricked. ‘And what role, Harry, do you play in executing such important affairs?’
I met her gaze for a moment before allowing my attention to wander to those wicked sweet lips. How to answer her question? I had not made the best impression upon Thomas Player, since he was very punctual and I arrived thirty minutes late for our first appointment. Since then he entrusted me only with the auditing of the churchwardens’ account books, a tedious task indeed. Yet I did my best, for this plague represented an opportunity to advance my cause, a chance to secure a position of real importance at long last. I turned up every morning on time and kept my eyes open until day’s end.
‘I do as I must.’ I waved a nonchalant hand. ‘But now is not the time to talk of rank nor status.’ I looked to Hedges for help.
‘Aye.’ He seized upon my olive branch and proceeded to wax lyrical about his own humble function. Meanwhile Liz bestowed upon me her melting gaze, a faint smile about the ends of her rose-crayoned lips. It was like bathing in warm honey. Oliver watched us, sharp-eyed.
Hedges coughed loudly, for no one listened. ‘Should you have the misfortune to become infected, or any of your household, then I hope you will consider calling upon me for help, Mr Lytle.’ He leant over and placed his hand uncomfortably close to mine.
‘What about you, Oliver?’ I asked, denying Hedges once more the attention he craved. The hand withdrew. ‘Will you stay?’
‘I still have the house at St Albans,’ he muttered.
‘We will stay too, Harry,’ Liz said, watching her father. ‘May God keep us from the plague.’ Two hot little circles burnt newly bright upon her cheeks and the muscles about her jaw tightened. Oliver Willis looked away. Strange.
‘I will visit often.’ Hedges leant towards Liz with a lopsided smile. ‘To ensure your health.’
Liz glared as if she would slap his face.
Oliver Willis contemplated a bottle of sack stood upon the dresser. ‘Thank you, Nathaniel. You are a good friend. I hope you can stay awhile betimes. I would talk to you of business.’
Hedges smiled widely, grease glistening upon his thick lips. ‘I should be delighted.’ He clapped his hands together in a show of unconvincing bonhomie. ‘How wonderful that we are all committed to remain. The pest is the judgement of God, as all men know. If your soul be clean and your conscience clear – then fear not!’ He laughed loud and a piece of salmon shot out of his nose. He snorted and rubbed his nostrils vigorously.
I wanted to lean over and poke him in the eye. John Foster, a friend of mine, had died the week before at Newgate Market. He was not a bad man; he visited church regularly, which was more than I did. Now his wife and three children were left to survive without him. How dare this preening pillicock imply it was deserved?
‘An interesting perspective, Mr Hedges,’ Liz said quietly, her temple pumping as it always did when she was angry.
‘If you be so godly, then why the elaborate precautions? Why not trust in him to protect you?’ I demanded to know.
Hedges arched his hairy brows, placed his hands on his inflated belly and stared at me like I was an evil sinner.
‘Aye, Mr Hedges,’ Liz echoed, ‘why does a man need lozenges and nutmeg if he has God’s blessing?’
Hedges gathered his shirt about his neck with stubby fingers. ‘God-fearing people need not fear the pestilential streams.’ His brow shone with a wet film of sweat. ‘The miasmatic air affects only those engaged in sluttish behaviour. Those that flee it invite God’s close inspection, for He will wonder why.’
I leant over and pointed my fork at him. ‘Outside the walls many good men have died who lived their lives meticulously.’
Hedges wrinkled his nose as if he detested the smell of his own top lip. ‘Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, even the most high, thy habitation; there shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.’ He licked his chops and rubbed his gushing brow, looking most uncomfortable. The price of wearing too many clothes on a hot summer evening, I supposed.
‘Mr Hedges!’ Liz said, stern. ‘If the godly are protected then why have all the godly men fled?’
‘Enough!’ Oliver Willis held up a weary hand. ‘I have not asked Nathaniel to dine with us that we might question his faith.’
Hedges watched us from above his pile of chins. Water poured from his head as though he were dissolving. It was then, as I searched for words that might restore his humour, he sneezed and fell into his dinner.
‘Nathaniel?’ Oliver Willis broke the silence.
‘I fear he is dead, sir.’ The servant Edward’s face stretched taut, eyes wide like little bowls.
Oliver stared with open jaw. All mischief vanished from Liz’s fair face, leaving only bare shock. For the sneeze was the sound of plague.
I craned over to see his neck, looking for a bubo. Most of his neck hid beneath three layers of clothes.
‘What will we do?’ exclaimed Oliver Willis, arms held out sideways like a little crab. Edward stood immovably stiff, eyes transfixed upon the dead medic.
I approached Hedges closer and attempted to see beneath his shirt with a knife from the table. Would I could see the plague and stab it.
‘You must inform the Examiner of Health,’ Liz finally replied in shocked whisper. ‘The master of the house must report it within two hours.’
Willis looked at his daughter, pleading. ‘Then they will lock us up here for forty days.’
‘What else is there?’ she demanded, face contorting in terrified spasm. ‘Else we will be punished by the alderman and be disgraced.’
Though the prospect of being locked up in the same house as Liz for forty days was enticing, I could not tarry here. ‘I have a notion,’ I said.
Everyone except Hedges turned to look at me.
‘Hedges lives at Fenchurch Street,’ I thought aloud.
Oliver Willis nodded.
‘Might he not have died while on his way home?’
Oliver and Liz regarded me as if I were the plague.
‘He has not been here long,’ I argued. ‘It is unlikely others of us are infected. In any case, we may take what precautions we may while we have the choice.’
‘If he died on his way home, Harry, then they shall lock us up in any case.’ Liz spoke slowly and carefully, still watching her agitated father.
‘Then we found him dead outside the door before he arrived.’
Oliver Willis looked hopefully at his daughter. More silent communication.
Tears welled in Liz’s eyes. ‘What of his wife, Harry?’
‘His wife has lost her husband,’ I answered. ‘Someone must tell her it kindly and allow her to bury him where she would see him buried.’
‘Who will tell her?’
‘The churchwardens will tell her so long as they have the opportunity,’ I replied.
Oliver Willis’ mouth hung open and his eyes glistened with hope, like a dog that has not eaten for a week. At that moment I perceived his reluctance to leave London. He had laboured hard these last five years, ambitious to succeed. I suspected he had borrowed more than he could afford. With London emptying, so his trade would fast disappear. By the time forty days passed he would be destitute.
‘We take him out respectfully, and lay him down upon the road. Then I visit the churchwardens and say I saw him there as I arrived,’ I offered.
Liz put her hands to her mouth as if she prayed. Oliver appeared as though a great weight fell from his shoulders, and the two servants in the room looked like they would die of fright.
‘All we need do is move him,’ I pointed out. ‘If Edward can help me then we will do the job now.’
‘Edward’s back is weak,’ Liz objected.
‘Then James can help,’ Oliver Willis countered impatiently. ‘Let’s to it.’
I turned back to Hedges, this foolish man who ventured beyond the city wall with his nutmegs and his lozenges. ‘He no longer breathes, so he is not contagious. If a man had gloves we could move him without exposure to the sticky atoms that may sit upon his clothing.’
‘I have gloves,’ Oliver Willis exclaimed eagerly. ‘Go fetch them, Liz.’
Liz hesitated a moment before doing as he bid. When she returned she hovered, uncertain to whom she should give them. Since it was my grand scheme, I took them. I bid my face look happier than my soul, put on the gloves and turned back to Hedges. I did not want to touch him, even with the gloves.
His face had slowly slid sideways in the buttery garlic sauce. I considered closing his eyes, but his eyelids were too greasy.
‘Put this in your mouth.’ Oliver Willis handed me a sprig of mint.
Though Hedges was but a short man, his top half burgeoned formidably large. I stood behind him, placed my hands above his shoulders and pulled hard. His plate travelled with him a short distance before it clattered back upon the table. His mouth sneered like he had not yet finished the sneeze. Rich currant sauce coated his face.
Liz looked angrily at her father. ‘We must clean him up if it is to be believed he has not dined here.’
‘Aye,’ Willis nodded eagerly, ‘and clear away the table as if we have not eaten.’
The searchers would arrive quick once news of his death became public. Outside the wall, searchers were forced to live with the gravediggers, away from the general population, and many took to drink. Here the plague was still new and the searchers more alert.
As I grabbed him beneath the armpits I could not help but wonder whether buboes lay beneath my fingers, ready to explode, so I attempted to lift him only by the tops of his arms. As a consequence he slid from my grasp. His head bounced on the floor and gravy from his hair splashed over the wall. Liz gasped and clasped her hands before her nose like he was a fragile piece of porcelain.
‘We will have to wash his hair,’ I realised. ‘Else his wife will wonder why he smells of fruit.’ His face and mouth besides, for Hedges’ manner at the table had been quite slovenly.
We wiped him clean as we could, then dragged him. The servant called James took him by the ankles, carelessly, as though he had no thought of the pest. We carried him to the front door. Oliver Willis opened it slowly, as if afraid there waited an army of outraged citizens. Outside was peaceful though, dark and warm. The day had been hotter than any could remember, and still the sun’s heat lingered, dissipating only slowly from the ground and the buildings. It was a strange feeling to step out into this night air, scuttling and alive, like there was no longer any time for sleep.
‘I can see no one,’ Willis whispered hoarsely.
I hesitated, feeling someone watched. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Aye, sure!’ he answered through gritted teeth. ‘Now let’s be done with it!’
James and I shuffled out with Hedges between us, and deposited him just a few yards away on the road upon his back. There he lay, gazing up at the night sky as if it was the first time he had seen it. His mouth hung open in miserable wonderment, as if, now taken unawares by the Lord his God, he waited to discover the consequence of it. I wished him well.
‘It is done.’ Willis scanned the street once more before hurrying us all back inside.
Liz held her hands together and stared at the door still, like she feared she had committed a grievous sin.
I leant over and kissed her upon the cheek. ‘I must go.’
‘Be careful, Harry,’ she whispered.
As I turned to leave, the last face I saw was James’, lit up bright, still thrilled by the excitement of it all.
Then the door closed and I was alone, street deserted as the hour neared curfew. Hedges still lay on his back staring at the stars. If he was not collected soon then the rats would be at him.
The sense of being watched clung stronger now. I walked fast up the road, unnerved by the emptiness and silence. Pitch and tar slowly sizzled in the burning braziers that lined the lane, and scented smoke drifted about the jetties of the houses, laced with pungent substances intended to cleanse the air. I had not thought it to be dirty afore now.
No birds tonight. Some said they scented the plague months before its arrival. The swallows left London six months since, a desertion that raised heckles even before the flight of the comet across our skies. How then could I have thought myself to be so safe? I cursed myself, my blind pig-headedness.
Truth was I had nowhere to go. To Cocksmouth, to stay with my mother and her disgusting brother, Robert? They lived in the middle of a field somewhere, surrounded by simpletons and whoballs. Robert kept a pig in the house. Otherwise a boarding house somewhere – to do what all day?
I recalled how excited I had been upon being accepted into the intelligence service only eighteen months ago. I had anticipated a life of political intrigue and advancement. Instead, I spent my days at a desk reading papers and sorting them into piles. Much as I had done before escaping my mundane existence as clerk at the Tower. I stayed here, I realised, because others left. I was desperate for some opportunity to demonstrate my sharp wit, meantime pretending the plague would not penetrate our walls. The events of this evening had revealed my vainglorious stupidity for what it was. We would have to leave.
As I walked towards St Olave’s, I wondered again what inspired Oliver Willis to invite Hedges into his house. The medics were supposed to keep to themselves, obliged to carry a red rod wherever they travelled. Why invite a medic into your house when he likely carried pestilence with him?
I heard a noise behind me, a heel catching on the cobbles. I stopped and peered back into the gloom, yet all I saw were shadows, flickering shifting shapes dancing in the light of the candles that lit the windows. I chastised my lily liver, cursed myself again for my stubborn intransigence, and hurried to find the churchwarden.
Chapter Two
OF THE SIGNS AND CONJECTURES OF THE DISEASE
The moon in Libra by Saturn afflicted, the disease has its origin from some surfeit of wine, gluttony, or meat not fully digested.
Davy Dowling was a butcher. He stood tall and broad, arms thick as hams and big knotted hands the size of dinner plates. His wide leathery face gazed serene from beneath a bed of white, bristled hair. His clothes were never clean. Pieces of old meat clung to his shirt and trousers, and flakes of dried blood fell like old scabs. I shuddered whenever he came close, for he loved to take a man to his chest and squeeze him.
Dowling was my partner. We had not chosen to be allies, rather we were thrust upon each other. Me for my wit and intelligence, I like to think, and he for other reasons which were still not apparent. We had worked together three times in the service of Lord Arlington, with whom Dowling had the closer relationship, much to my frustration. He had worked as an investigator longer than I.
‘I am sent to fetch you,’ he announced in his soft Scots burr, walking into my kitchen uninvited.
I struggled with a tough piece of cold goose. Jane, my maidservant, bought it as a special delicacy after I announced our imminent departure, and now stood as witness to my enjoyment, making sure I finished it. ‘I am busy all day,’ I told him. ‘We have decided to leave.’
‘Leave?’ Dowling looked to Jane, broad smile across her pale face, arms folded across her chest. ‘You who have spent the last month bemoaning the faint heart of those that left already?’
‘God spoke to me,’ I replied.
Dowling growled, for he well understood my lack of faith. ‘Last afternoon you scorned the idea of leaving, today you make preparations.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Where did you go last night?’
‘I dined at the house of Oliver Willis.’
Jane fetched Dowling some goose, which served him right. ‘Where does Oliver Willis live?’ he asked.
‘Seething Lane.’
‘You walked all the way from Seething Lane at night?’
‘It was barely past curfew. I cannot think I was infected if that be your concern.’ Which words sounded false as soon as they left my mouth.
‘What journey did you take?’
‘Fenchurch Street and Cheapgate,’ I confessed.
‘Fenchurch Street?’ Dowling snapped. ‘Why did you not avoid it?’ Fenchurch Street was one of the few areas affected by plague inside the wall.
‘I could have,’ I replied warily, ‘but I had an errand to run for Oliver Willis.’
He scowled. ‘So you walked Fenchurch Street in the middle of the night, the same night you decide to leave London?’
‘Why do you care so much?’ I demanded.
He sighed, bowed his head and poked at the goose with his finger. A thick smear of red streaked his silver hair. Cow’s blood, I reckoned. ‘Lucy left this morning. She is gone north.’
I couldn’t imagine the butcher living without Lucy. She was a strong woman with a quiet wisdom and unfailing sense of humour. As was required, living with him. ‘Why did you not go with her?’
‘I have duties in the parish,’ he muttered.
‘What duties?’
‘I am appointed one of the churchwardens.’
‘You would stay here and manage the gravediggers rather than be with your wife?’ I snorted. ‘Go be a churchwarden up north.’
‘I have responsibilities to God, Harry, which you would not understand.’ He pushed his chair back and stood straight. ‘And I did not ask you for advice.’
‘Aye, well there is more than enough advice to be had these days,’ I ceded. ‘So I will content myself with calling you a great pudding-head.’
‘Aye, well, pudding-head or not, Lord Arlington is waiting for us at the Vintners’ Hall.’
I choked on a piece of meat. ‘Arlington?’ Lord Arlington, head of the intelligence service. My lord and master, who had never deigned to meet me once in more than a year. ‘What does he want?’
‘Sooner we get there, sooner we’ll know.’ Dowling headed towards the door. ‘We shouldn’t keep him waiting.’
A low hissing sound emanated from betwixt Jane’s lips. She glided towards me, dress swishing, green eyes fixed upon mine, like a terrible serpent. ‘We must be ready to leave before tomorrow morning and you have much to do.’
‘Aye,’ I agreed, ‘but would you have me keep a lord waiting?’
‘No, but I would have you return in good haste.’
A man might ask why a King’s man, such as I, allows himself to be managed by his maidservant. Certainly a question I asked myself, for though she was permanently enraged and frightening to behold, she was but a woman and quite a small one besides. Moreover she was indebted to me since I supported most of her odd assortment of ill-fated relatives through various charitable donations of food, clothing and money. Yet how quiet my little house would be without her; my life besides.
‘I will return as soon as I am able,’ I said, clutching about me what vestiges of dignity I could muster. ‘Which will be when I am able.’ With which magnificent rejoinder, I hurried out the house in the sanctuary of Dowling’s shadow.
The Vintners’ Hall towered afront of us like an ancient Greek temple, four tall columns supporting an ornate roof upon which was carved their coat of arms. A ship, three barrels and two swans, with grapes hung about their necks. The vintners were the only legal owners of swans upon the Thames, together with the dyers and the King himself.
Wide, arched windows stood in a line, each holding a dozen small panes besmirched with thick layers of city grime. The wrought-iron gates hung loose upon their hinges, propped open with stacks of bricks for fear they would fall if pushed.
The vintners were once a powerful guild, presiding over an entire trade, but their importance fell away during the Interregnum. An ungrateful Charles II now took every opportunity to bleed their finances further.
Dowling and I walked across the courtyard. The painted sundial, faded and chipped. The squat stone well, broken and full of rotting vegetation. Grass grown long, unburdened by the passage of men. The heavy oak door hung rough, polish worn away. A thick crack ran diagonally, so wide you could see right through it.
A bedraggled fellow appeared from within, lean and poorly dressed, dark hair matted and tangled like an abandoned nest. He held a thick baton in his right hand, reluctant to show it. ‘You can’t come in here. It’s closed.’
Dowling pushed past. ‘Lord Arlington sent for us.’
‘Lord Arlington?’ the man exclaimed. ‘Then you may pass, for he is here already.’ He scuttled after us like a strange crab. ‘It was me that found him, you know. He will tell you, me that found him hanging from his neck.’
I followed Dowling through a dingy corridor, straw upon the floor. ‘Found who?’
‘Thomas Wharton, the Earl of St Albans.’ He danced upon his tiptoes, stopping still when he saw a tall fellow walking towards us from the end of the passage.
‘My name is Newcourt,’ the new man announced. He was better dressed than I and tall like a heron. His silk doublet and ornate petticoat breeches were of the latest fashion, his velvet jacket impossibly soft. ‘You must be Dowling and Lytle?’
The dishevelled man bowed his head and edged back away towards the main door. He scratched under his armpit and grimaced. I immediately thought of buboes; the sinister black swellings that signalled plague, growing unobserved, heralding death.
I skipped forwards. ‘I am Lytle.’
‘Indeed.’ Newcourt peered down his nose with such contempt I felt like tweaking it. ‘Follow me.’
Sunlight poured into the great hall through tall windows and onto the carnage about us. Plaster peeled from the walls, exposing naked brickwork. Planks of wood lay in great piles about the dirt floor. Ornate frescoes of vine and grape decorated the ceiling, broken and crumbling, beneath which hung two bare feet, black-soled, twisting gently in mid-air.
It was a naked man, the tip of his yard peering down at us. The body dripped, wet, tinged with scarlet stain. I nearly slipped in a foul puddle of piss, wine and shit as I stepped back to avoid a drop falling from his toes. The rope led upwards to the balustrade of the gallery above and disappeared over the rail.
Against the far wall stood a substantial figure, hands behind his back, chest inflated like an old soldier. Without doubt it was Lord Arlington, for no other noble walked about London with a black plaster across the bridge of his nose. He gazed out sternly from beneath heavy lids, eyes dark and steady. A strand of white hair poked out from beneath a magnificent black wig. He dressed conservatively, doublet buttoned to his neck, breeches hooked to the bottom of it. The black plaster bestowed upon him a sinister effect.
‘Lytle and Dowling?’ he called, a powerful, deep voice brimming with conviction. ‘You work for me, I believe?’
We approached like small children. ‘Yes, your lordship.’
He nodded at the corpse. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘It is a man hanging by his neck, your lordship, whose head has been set alight.’ Dowling squinted. ‘His eyes glint strangely.’
‘His eyes always did glint strangely.’ Arlington watched us intently. ‘Though not as bright as they do today.’
The corpse’s head was as black as soot and the eyes gleamed metallic when they caught the sun. Something protruded from his mouth, round and green.
‘That is the Earl of St Albans?’ I ventured, watching the small scrawny buttocks spiral slow.
‘So it would seem,’ Arlington replied. ‘You’ll find his clothes upon the balcony and a wine bottle pushed down his throat.’
‘He drank a lot of wine?’ I asked.
Arlington stared like I was a great fool. ‘The Earl was a shirker and a shammer,’ he declared. ‘He recently cheated a merchant of the City out of a considerable fortune, which everyone does know.’
‘Henry Burke,’ Dowling guessed.
Who the boggins was Henry Burke?
Arlington nodded. ‘Burke complained to me three times, each time the same complaint. He claimed Wharton asked him to procure the most expensive wines in Europe for a great event at which the King would attend. Burke pledged to supply the finest wines to be found anywhere in Europe, and so he did. Then Wharton’s men seized his wines without paying a crown.’
‘Burke was a fool then,’ I concluded.
‘He says the transaction was guaranteed by a lord.’ Arlington stared into space. ‘Though he would not tell me which.’
‘Why would he not tell you?’
‘I don’t know, Lytle!’ Arlington barked, cheeks reddening. ‘Stop asking me so many damned questions.’ He glanced sideways at Newcourt. ‘You two will discover who killed the Earl. Is that clear?’
Dowling raised his eyebrows. ‘Us?’
He waved a hand. ‘There is no one else able. Most of my agents fled the City weeks ago.’
A real assignment, I realised; the murder of an earl. The opportunity I waited for this last two years. I wanted to roar out in triumph. At the same time I felt a small knot of terror in my stomach, a fear we might fail, a fear of remaining in London.
Arlington rocked on his heels and placed his hands on his hips. ‘I must leave for Hampton Court today to attend His Highness, but Newcourt here will stay in the City and be available to you if required. Won’t you, Newcourt?’
Newcourt nodded, sullen.
‘Here is a letter of authority bearing my seal, and certificates of health for you and Dowling, should you so need them.’ He snapped his fingers and Newcourt retrieved a satchel, which he then gave to me. ‘Do of your best and I trust it will be a short investigation. I will present your conclusions to the King.’ Arlington strode towards the door. ‘Your first job is to cut Wharton down and carry the body to St Albans for burial. That you must do today, for if he is not buried quick he will rot in the heat. Good day!’ He waved a hand and left, footsteps echoing down the corridor.
‘Come on,’ Dowling beckoned, marching towards the staircase in the corner of the hall. I followed, watching the dead man sway.
The stairs were loose and broken. I trod with care up to the gallery, praying it was sturdier than the rest of the building. The rope stretched taut across the top of the balustrade to a stanchion by the wall.
‘Godamercy!’ Dowling breathed, leaning over the balcony.
The corpse’s head stared so close I could reach out and touch it. The face was charred and flaking, hair burnt away from angry red scalp, raw and ridged. In place of its eyes were two gold coins, buried deep within swollen eye sockets, and out of its broken jaws projected the bottom of a wine bottle. The rope dug deep into its neck and white shoulders glistened like bone beneath a thin sheen of red wine.
‘Godamercy!’ Dowling exclaimed again, while I crouched upon the floor, gulping deep breaths in slow steady rhythm. The air tasted dirty and clung to the inside of my nostrils. I struggled to quell the nausea that washed my stomach.
‘Come on, Harry.’ Dowling tugged at my shoulder. ‘We’ll pull him up rather than cut him down, else he’ll fall twelve feet.’
I breathed deep again, yet the air was too warm. I needed cold air. My stomach cramped and I knew I would vomit. I ran as far as I could down the gallery afore emptying the contents of last night’s splendid dinner upon the boards.
‘You feel better now?’ Dowling called, pointing at the rope. ‘You pull from the back, I’ll pull from the front.’
I wiped at my brow with the sleeve of my jacket, sweating, feeling much improved. Returning to the scene, I stepped as far from the balustrade as I could, out of sight of the body, and gripped the rope with both hands. Dowling grunted, satisfied, and braced his knees against the railing. I hoped it would hold. I had visions of his fat arse disappearing into the space below.
‘Pull hard and I’ll drag him over the rail!’ Dowling called over his shoulder.
I hauled as hard as I could, too hard, for the corpse’s head hit the balustrade with a sharp crack. Dowling stuck up his hand and muttered to himself. He leant over, seized the body beneath the arms and drove backwards with his legs. Then he staggered, tripped, and lost his balance, crashing against the gallery floor. The body slithered against his chest like a strange fish, bright red buttocks pointed in the air. Dowling groaned, pushed the corpse away in disgust and pitched to his feet, wiping at his sodden shirt. A thick red globule of whatever foul liquid soaked Wharton slid down his cheek. My nausea returned.
Dowling wiped at his lips and spat over the railing afore kneeling down next to the corpse, oblivious to what rotten substance covered the floor. He tried to roll the body over onto its back, struggling to hold it firm as it slipped between his fingers. ‘And it shall come to pass, that instead of sweet smell there shall be stink. Isaiah, Chapter Three.’ A thick stain seeped slowly up Dowling’s trouser legs towards his thighs. He prodded at the coins in the man’s eyes, but couldn’t get a grip. I did my best not to retch.
‘The coins were pushed hard into his eyes before he died,’ he declared. ‘Which is why the flesh has swollen about them. I reckon his wrists were tied to stop him pulling them out.’ He took a short knife from his trousers and slipped the blade behind one coin. He prised it out then tossed it towards me. ‘The eye is pushed flat into his head,’ he said, face contorted with disgust.
I picked the coin up gingerly, holding it between my fingertips. Four heraldic shields on one side and Charles II’s big nose on the other. A gold guinea. ‘Aye, well.’ I put the coin in my pocket. ‘It’s definitely Thomas Wharton.’
Dowling looked up. ‘How can you tell?’
I pointed. ‘His clothes are over there in a pile, as Lord Arlington said.’ Blue silk breeches and a shirt cut of fine linen. Beneath them a long woollen jacket and a distinctive purple hat with a long black feather. ‘His hat.’
‘Aye,’ Dowling grunted. ‘His silly hat. Whoever killed him did so with a fury. Pushed the bottom of that bottle right up to his teeth.’ He rubbed his wet hands across his scalp. ‘O Lord my God, in thee do I put my trust: save me from all them that persecute me, and deliver me.’
The same Lord God who sent plague to kill us all? ‘There are no other marks upon the body, nothing to tell us who may have killed him?’
Dowling held out a bloody hand, seeking assistance in climbing to his feet. I declined. ‘You don’t think the bottle and the coins are clue enough, Harry?’ He grimaced as his back straightened.
Quick steps sounded across the hall below, then up the stairs; heavy and confident, not the stride of the poor fellow who admitted us. I wondered if it was Newcourt returned, or even Arlington himself. Instead a great black shadow, a giant, wide chest draped in flowing cloak.
‘Who are you and what are you doing?’ the man challenged, eyes glittering perspicacity and cunning. He swept off his hat, revealing a huge, bony face, long, wide nose and big lips. A scar ran from the corner of his mouth to the top of his ear.
‘We are King’s men.’ I stepped forwards. ‘Who are you? No one is supposed to be here.’
‘I know him. You do not.’ He advanced upon the corpse and crouched next to its head, cupping the back of it in one giant hand. Then he gripped the base of the bottle with his right hand and ripped it loose, holding it aloft against the sunlight. ‘Brandevin,’ he declared. ‘With Burke’s mark upon it. Which of you forced it down his throat?’
‘Us?’ I exclaimed. ‘We only just got here.’
Dowling wiped his hands on his knees and crouched next to the stranger. ‘We are here to find out who killed him, good fellow. Who are you and what are you doing here?’
The big man stood slowly, eyeing the stains upon Dowling’s skin and clothes. ‘Never mind.’ He tossed the bottle in the air and caught it by the neck. ‘You may go now.’
‘We may go?’ I repeated, indignant. ‘We are taking the body back to St Albans at Lord Arlington’s request.’
The man smiled without humour, mouth stretched wider than a man’s hand. ‘Arlington, you say.’
‘Lord Arlington.’
He threw the bottle at my chest and I caught it, too late to consider where it had been. ‘Come to cover his tracks, have you?’
‘We have asked you twice already, sir.’ Dowling took the bottle from me. ‘Who are you?’
‘Find out for yourself.’ He surveyed the disfigured face once more, then inspected the rest of the body, paying special attention to the penis. Then he grunted and turned his attention to the pile of clothes. He took the hat in one hand, the silken shirt with the other. ‘His clothes.’ He tossed them back to the floor. ‘What will you do now?’
‘Find out who killed him,’ I replied.
‘And who will that be?’ he sneered.
‘Who do you think?’
The man stepped towards me like he would pick me up and throw me from the gallery, then placed a thick forefinger upon my forehead. ‘Rest assured,’ he said, hoarse. ‘Rest assured.’ He tapped me hard, then smiled again, turned and marched back the way he came.
I leant over the balcony and watched the top of his huge head disappear, black hair with streaks of white. ‘Who in God’s name was that?’
Dowling shook his head. ‘A friend of Wharton’s is what he said.’ He lifted the bottle to his nose and sniffed. ‘Brandevin.’ He passed it to me. ‘You agree?’
I held the tall cylindrical neck between thumb and forefinger, imagining that some of Wharton’s flesh must still reside within it. The bulbous base was mottled and cracked. I held it to my nose, but not too close. The smell was sharp and fruity. ‘Aye, brandevin, and he said it had Burke’s mark upon it.’ I turned it upside down. ‘It has no mark that I can see.’
‘Methinks the smell is the mark and Burke is the supplier,’ Dowling said.
‘Then it must be part of the shipment that Henry Burke supplied Wharton.’ I recalled Arlington’s testimony. ‘So why did he ask if it was us that forced it down his throat?’
Dowling shrugged, wiped his palms upon his wide rump and sighed. ‘We had better get him clean and boxed,’ he said. ‘If we are to take him to St Albans today we must set off soon. We cannot fetch him in this state. They will think themselves cursed.’
We should close his eyes, I supposed, if he had eyelids remaining. ‘How will you hide a burnt head?’
‘Ceruse,’ Dowling answered. ‘Undiluted. And cochineal upon his cheeks.’
‘He will look like a grinning harlequin.’ I stared at the blackened, corrugated head. ‘His wife will die of shock.’
Dowling scowled. ‘We must take him to an embalmer if we can find one, and do the best possible.’
‘At least we might put his hat back on,’ I said.
‘I will go and see if our friend has ordered a coffin.’ Dowling headed off.
‘I will come with you.’ I hurried after him, for I had no desire to be left alone with the monstrosity that used to be Thomas Wharton.
Chapter Three
IF ONE SHALL FIND THE PARTY AT HOME HE WOULD SPEAK WITH
If the Lord of the seventh house be in any of the four angles, you may conclude the party is at home with whom you would speak with.
Dowling secured us a butcher’s cart, stained a deep enduring red, testament to a regular procession of bloody carcasses. Now the Earl lay there, wrapped in sheets and blankets, lain straight inside his coffin. I tried to ignore the sound of his body bouncing in the box as we negotiated the uneven track.
The road north to St Albans led through the parish of St Giles, one of the worst affected by plague. These church bells pealed all day long, a ceaseless reminder to a parish already on its knees. The sky was a perfect blue, as it had been all summer, no clouds to blunt the rays of a fierce yellow sun. It was said the sun conspired with the pestilence, heating up the ground to release the poisonous miasma.
I sat, nervous, up on the wagon next to Dowling, shirt burning against my back, praying no one would set upon us, no infected destitutes hungry for food. The best outcome would be that we solved this mystery early and convincingly. Then I might withdraw from London for the few weeks it would take for the plague to tire of itself, and return soon to more responsibility, a grander title and some money.
Frightened faces peered from the windows of poor, mean houses, speaking of misery and bewilderment. Here the sound of cartwheels was as common at night as it was during day, for the death-carts emerged from the graveyards at dusk, to rattle about the streets in search of the newly deceased. Bearers loaded bodies onto the back of their wagons and fetched them to the plague pits, where they threw the bodies down in piles and attempted to spread them out tidy.
‘What did you not tell me this morning?’ Dowling mused, staring ahead.
The cart lurched as we ran across a deep rut dried into the road. I thought of deceiving him, but had not the will. ‘There may be illness in the Willis household.’
Dowling glanced sideways. ‘What illness?’
‘Dr Hedges was dining with us when he dropped dead of the pest,’ I said. ‘I dragged him to the street and told the churchwarden he died afore he reached us.’
Dowling’s eyes stretched wide as dinner plates.
‘You are my confessor, Dowling, so ye may not tell anyone I told you it.’
‘How do you know you are not diseased, Harry?’ Dowling exclaimed. ‘They lock people behind closed doors for a reason.’
‘Aye,’ I agreed, ‘but not a very good reason. Hedges had walked to all parts afore he came to dinner. Any man might have been infected. For my part I kept as far from him as I could while we ate, for he was not a pleasant fellow.’
He shook the reins, angry. ‘You sat at the same table!’
‘It was a long table.’
He cast me a furious gaze and clamped his jaw closed.
We left houses behind for open fields. The further north we rode, the more families we encountered camped by the roadside, belongings spread out beneath the bushes. Others set up residence in the fields. These were those without credentials to pass the turnpikes. They would wait for nightfall before seeking covert passage through fields and forest.
Just before Whetstone the sharp crack of a musket shot rang out, crisp against the still morning air. Around the corner a crowd gathered, their passage blocked by a long turnpike manned by a dozen men with guns held up. One musket smoked, its owner a young fellow holding his weapon to his chest, body trembling.
We stopped as close to the turnpike as we could reach, our progress blocked by a wall of thirty or forty angry men leaning forwards into the barrier.
Dowling jumped from his seat and marched into the mob. ‘What happens here?’
A short, strong fellow shoved him in the chest. ‘Who do you think you are?’
Dowling shoved harder and sent him sprawling. ‘King’s man.’ The crowd parted, yielding reluctantly to the hard authority they heard in his voice. I followed close behind.
As we emerged from the steaming rabble three muskets rose to point at Dowling and one at me. Dowling brandished his credentials. ‘King’s men heading north up the King’s road at King’s request.’
A sentry stepped forwards, thick linen shirt hanging down above rough, loose trousers. His nose was packed with herbs, sage it appeared, which enjoyed no protective qualities I knew of. His cheeks were stuffed with something else besides. He frowned, cheeks swollen like an angry mouse.
‘Turn about and go back to London,’ he mumbled.
‘We have business in these parts,’ Dowling replied.
He raised his rusty weapon. ‘Not today you don’t.’
‘We are King’s agents and you cannot deny us access to the King’s highway.’
He scratched his head and looked back at his three colleagues. Then he glared at us. ‘Show us evidence you are King’s agents.’
Dowling held out both our certificates of health and Arlington’s seal.
The sentry pointed at Dowling with the tip of his stick. ‘You read it.’
Dowling read the flowery text out loud and showed our man the seals up close.
The man squinted through keen brown eyes. ‘How do we know you don’t carry the plague with you?’
‘Sir, we have the King’s authority and are protected from the plague by his holy influence,’ Dowling answered in all seriousness.
The man surveyed the crowd behind us. ‘You have horses?’
‘We have a cart.’
‘What is in your cart?’
‘The body of Thomas Wharton, Earl of St Albans.’
The sentry leapt back as though he stood on a snake. ‘He died of plague?’
‘No,’ Dowling assured him. ‘He died of a broken neck. There are no tokens nor buboes upon him, nor any sign of the plague. You may look for yourself.’
‘Fetch your cart,’ the sentry directed.
Dowling nodded obediently and returned to the wagon while I waited at the turnpike. Our horse was large and steadfast, not averse to treading on a few feet if required. Rather like Dowling.
The sentry licked his lips, eyeing the throng. He pulled the gate open and stood waving his arms frantically until we were through. The crowd surged behind us and another shot rang out. Three sentries leapt up onto our cart and fired into the middle of the melee while their comrades succeeded in closing the gate.
‘Show me this body,’ our sentry demanded, lips tight, body taut.
‘Have you seen the body of a man hanged by the neck?’ Dowling climbed over to the back of the cart. ‘It is a sight that stays with most men longer then they would wish.’
‘Show me,’ the man commanded.
Dowling prised open the box, carefully loosened the wrappings about the corpse, then slid back the coverings from Wharton’s face. It seemed grey now. It had been white before we set off, but the ceruse and cochineal had rubbed off during the ride. The puffiness about the eyes had subsided, leaving big black patches about empty holes. The mouth hung open again, jaw bouncing loose about the body’s chest.
The sentry put his hand over his eyes. ‘I did not ask to see the head,’ he groaned. ‘I would see the armpits and the groin for buboes, the chest for tokens.’
Dowling obliged without further commentary. The sentry nodded weakly, easily convinced the body was clean.
We enjoyed easier passage at the turnpikes further north, since most without credentials were turned back at Whetstone. By early afternoon we were through St Albans. I was astounded to see two doors with red crosses on Sopwell Lane, for I didn’t realise the plague penetrated so far so fast.
We kept riding, conscious of the stares of those about us, angry and suspicious. How things changed. London was the lifeblood of this town, the destination for those who stopped to rest here. Not now.
The Earl’s Old Palace was located but a mile in the direction of Harpenden. In truth it was but a quarter of a palace, for three-quarters of it was demolished by the previous owner who planned to build something more splendid. The Restoration thwarted his grand ambitions however, and now he languished, a pauper, somewhere out east. The Earl, on the other hand, enjoyed elevation to loftier heights, through some mysterious services to the King. Not great services, I supposed, else he would have got a whole palace.
Narrow, latticed windows speckled the front of the house, a ready vantage from which to spy unseen. We rode slowly to the coach house, across the front of the silent building. One man laboured easily to clean the stables, where stood just two horses.
A tall figure emerged from a door at the base of a squat little tower attached to the house. He strode towards us, a strong young man, oddly energetic amidst such dormant surroundings. ‘May I help you?’ he asked in a Scots accent. To my ear he spoke similar to Dowling, yet Dowling tensed.
‘We work for the King. We would talk to Lady Wharton,’ Dowling said, eyes unmoving.
The young man eyed the rough attire of the butcher, then looked to me. Though my clothes had crumpled and become sticky, I evidently presented a more comforting aspect. The young man’s black hair lay cropped close to his scalp, his face swarthy, his eyes brown and inquisitive.
‘We have urgent news of the Earl.’ I showed him the thick wax seal. ‘News that cannot wait.’
He ran a finger over the seal and scowled.
We followed him into the tower, a dark musty passage, walls lined with oak panels, thick and warm. Black and white tiles covered the floor, worn and polished. Noiseless, save for the crashing echo of our own steps reverberating across unseen halls and spaces. Cracked paintings hung on the walls, long-forgotten faces peering out in awkward pose, the self-consciousness of moments gone, buried beneath thick layers of varnish and grime.
We emerged from the gloom into a luminous space, where tall, foggy windows turned bright sunlight into ghostly white effervescence. Then back into the bowels of this sickly place, past a series of open doorways giving view only to faded tapestries, shrouded furniture and emptiness.
We turned a corner into a fresh passage into which light flooded from far ahead, beneath a square stone archway. As we advanced, so the banqueting hall came into view, a magnificent structure towering above us like the inside of a cathedral. The roof was built of oak, an artful lattice of ornate carved beams. Tapestries climbed the walls from floor to the height of three men, patchworks of red and green flowers. Above the tapestries, a row of arched windows allowed the sun to burst through thick walls, bathing all in a bright, warm light. Yet none banqueted here in recent times. The several long tables that ran the width of the hall were bare and dusty. Chairs sprawled as if those that dined here last left suddenly, never to return.
‘My name is Conroy.’ The young fellow bowed. ‘Please wait here, gentlemen, and I will see if her ladyship is disposed to see you.’ He turned and left.
‘This place has about as much life about it as Wharton himself,’ I noted, sitting down.
Dowling shook his head. ‘The Lord maketh poor, and maketh rich. He bringeth low, and lifteth up.’
‘The Earl was brungeth low, it seems.’
‘Aye,’ Dowling growled.
I watched the sun creep from one window to another. I worried what was happening to the corpse in the afternoon heat.
Finally she arrived, dressed in such formal elegance I understood why time dragged. Mercilessly boned, bedecked in deep-scarlet skirt and gold-braided, pale-green underskirt, she radiated a severe strain of beauty. These were not the clothes of a woman in mourning. She wore an intricately arranged wig, a heavy burden in this hot weather. Beads of sweat erupted in small globules about the edges of the paint upon her face.
My eyes didn’t linger, for she had with her a child as ugly as any I had seen in all my life. The bones of its head rippled like a wave, and the sockets of its eyes bulged too large. Dry raised sores covered its yellow skin and it scratched itself continuously.
‘Why do you stare at him?’ Lady Wharton asked with a tremor in her voice. She held my gaze, demanding an answer. I could not reply truthfully, for it would be uncivil, yet I could think of no suitable lie. Conroy glowered from where he lingered in the shadows.
Dowling knelt and took the child’s hands. ‘Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart.’
Not something I could have said without sticky sweetness cementing my teeth together in deathly grimace, but it seemed to satisfy Lady Wharton. She stared at Dowling with eyes and lips slightly narrowed, yet all she would see was sincerity shrouded in an unquestioning allegiance to God. Then she turned again at me. I did my best to look noble.
‘I understand you have come from London. My husband is not at home.’
‘Lady,’ Dowling spoke, sombre. ‘Hell hath enlarged herself and opened her mouth without measure.’
‘Hell and destruction are never full,’ she replied in a high, faint voice.
Dowling clutched his hands together in strange anxiety. Unusually tongue-tied today, I thought. Was he intimidated by her nobility? ‘I can think of no kind way of conveying the news that we bear,’ he stuttered.
‘Faith cometh by hearing,’ she said.
It seemed as if the Scots baboon was about to cry, so I decided to put him out of his misery. ‘We found your husband dead last night.’
Dowling’s baleful stare and stiff jaw signalled a lack of gratitude.
Lady Wharton bowed her head and clutched her white hands to her mouth. I waited for her to ask how, or when, but she said nothing at all, just stood unmoving. Her eyes stared at the floor, yet without anguish, nor even a tear.
‘Would you be alone a while? We can wait until you are ready?’ Dowling offered. Good of him, I ceded, but also a nuisance.
‘Do I lack composure?’ Her voice deepened.
‘No, Lady,’ I answered on his behalf, for he was about as useful as a bag of wet wool. ‘We hoped you might tell us something of his life, something that might help establish the circumstances of his death.’
She raised her chin and cast upon me the same steely gaze I saw before. ‘What circumstances?’
‘He was killed.’ I spoke gentle as I could. ‘Slain.’
