Hearts of Darkness E-Book

Paul Lawrence

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Harry Lytle Chronicles
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 498

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Harry Lytle, who works for Lord Arlington's intelligence service, is sent to Essex where the plague is breeding to track down a traitor and bring him back. Knowing first hand of Lord Arlington's barbaric cruelty, Lytle knows he can't refuse. Travelling into a disease-ridden village with a murderer for a travel companion seems like a better option.

Leseprobe

Hearts of Darkness

The Chronicles of Harry Lytle

PAUL LAWRENCE

For Ruth, Charlotte, Callum, Cameron and Ashleigh

Contents

Title PageDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-SevenChapter Twenty-EightChapter Twenty-NineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty-OneChapter Thirty-TwoChapter Thirty-ThreeChapter Thirty-FourChapter Thirty-FiveChapter Thirty-SixChapter Thirty-SevenChapter Thirty-EightHistorical NotesAcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorBy Paul LawrenceCopyright

Chapter One

We write of the year 1666 in which, according unto the expectations of many, very miraculous accidents shall happen.

Astrological Judgments for the year 1666

I poked the rancid beef about my plate, suppressing a desire to run from this place, dancing and singing, all the way to the Mermaid. For that afternoon I made a momentous decision, the most important decision a man makes, for I decided what to do with the rest of my life. I was going to become an apothecary. I wanted to celebrate, tell the whole world, and drink a toast to myself. Instead I withered beneath the stony glare of Mrs Collis, who stared like she suspected me of a great crime, her face glowing a shade of pale green in the candlelight.

The cesspit overflowed. We had sidestepped a shallow pool of thin, brown soup on the way to the dining room, seeping from beneath the cellar door. It stank so foul I could taste it at the back of my throat. It coated my tongue. Every morsel of food on the table, every mouthful, tasted the same as the air smelt: rank and putrid.

You could tell who were the butchers sat around the table. They were the ones munching slowly with the monotonous rhythm of contented cows, happily oblivious. Of them all, Dowling was the largest and seemingly most satisfied. Square-shouldered as a dray mare, his head resembled a boulder on a beach, grey and craggy, coated with a thin layer of spiky, white bristle.

John Collis sat at the end of the table, he whose wedding it was. His ruddy, blotched face stared out unhappily from beneath a stiff, tangled mess of brown goat hair, a stray lump of periwig fallen precarious over his right eye. I never saw a butcher in a wig before. I had met him but two or three times, for he was Dowling’s friend, not mine. I was surprised he invited me to his wedding dinner.

Fourteen of us sat round the long table, the backs of our chairs pressed up against the plaster walls. Bride and groom sat next to each other at the head, flanked by a bridesman and two bridesmaids. Collis sat with shoulders petrified, only his jowls hanging loose and floppy, while his bride scrutinised the rest of us like we were strangers, peering beady-eyed through the darkening gloom.

The pile of cakes and biscuits at the centre of the table stood modest, for the butchers all brought meat instead. The taller the pile, the brighter the prospect of the couple, which signified a life of hardship for these two.

The church ceremony had passed cheerfully enough. Though a second marriage, Mr and Mrs Collis nevertheless chose to marry in public, an option neglected by many for fear of mockery and sabotage. The vulgar guardians of social sensibilities made special effort to attend such occasions, to whistle and jeer at the reading of the banns, then to follow the newly wedded couple back to their house, to make uproarious din as they prepared to consummate their union. Today’s congregation participated with sombre respect, for everyone knew these two suffered grievous loss during the plague. Collis lost his wife and all three children; Mrs Collis lost a husband and two sons. Collis managed a smile or two, but the bride scowled, with a permanently wrinkled nose.

The last of the daylight slipped away, leaving us to the mercy of the long thin candles lined up down the centre of the table. The pocks upon Collis’s face turned black.

‘I am thinking of becoming an apothecary,’ I said to Dowling, louder than I intended.

Dowling stopped chewing, and regarded me like I was drunk. ‘Making drugs and selling them in bottles? You have no training as an apothecary.’

I stuck out my chin, determined he would not dishearten me. ‘I will learn.’

Dowling sighed like I was his errant son. Few men had taken as many wrong turns as I. First my father sent me to Cambridge to study theology, where I learnt only that I would never be a religious man. Then I endured years of abject misery as a clerk at the Wakefield Tower, sorting an endless stream of old documents and records, feeling my soul leak steadily from my fingertips into cracked, yellow parchment. Finally I accepted a post in Lord Arlington’s intelligence service. Anticipating a life of derring-do and glorious adventure, instead I found myself performing more tedious, clerical duties, until Dowling and I were finally instructed to investigate the death of Thomas Wharton, Earl of St Albans.

‘I have nightmares, Davy,’ I whispered, staring out the window into the dusk. Of the night I led one of Wharton’s violent accomplices into the churchyard at St Vedast’s. In the dream, I sat alone upon the stone bench beneath the giant oak, staring into the pitch-black night, listening to the screams of a man being tortured to death somewhere betwixt the gravestones. Then the screaming stopped and all fell silent. My heart beat loud against my ribs, drumming out a deafening rhythm for the murderer to hear. I didn’t move, terrified, unable to tell whether anyone approached. Then a vicious, young face appeared before me, looming from the darkness, lips curled in hungry satisfaction.

‘God help me!’ I slapped my palm against my chest, for the same face suddenly appeared framed in the window afore me before disappearing just as quick.

Dowling shifted his weight and thrust his face next to mine.

‘I thought I saw Withypoll,’ I gasped.

‘Withypoll is dead, Harry.’

So he was; he died a year ago. I left him lain upon the floor of the King’s wardrobe tied to the corpse of a dead woman, a woman killed by plague. It was not me who bound him, but I who left him, for fear he would kill me if released.

‘My nightmares are impatient.’ I tried to laugh. ‘Now they don’t wait for me to fall asleep.’

‘Too much ale,’ Dowling muttered. ‘Now, tell me how you plan to become an apothecary.’

I bowed my head, afraid to look again out of the window. I regarded my hand instead, flat against the thick grain of the sturdy oak table. ‘When I was at Cambridge I attended some lectures about plants, and the healing properties of several sorts. Don’t you remember I prepared your thumb with fleabane?’

‘You bought some powdered fleabane at the market and bandaged my thumb,’ Dowling said, gently. ‘Which ability doesn’t make you an apothecary.’

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘But I know an old man who owns a shop on Walbrook Street. His son died of plague, as did his wife. I spoke to him today about buying his business, upon condition he teaches me first.’

Dowling grunted. ‘Do you have any money left?’

I snorted. ‘Barely.’ For Arlington never paid us, and my hard-earned savings were dwindling fast. ‘But yes, I do have enough, and once I am established I will earn a good living.’ My heart surged with new conviction. ‘Now is the time,’ I declared, ‘before it’s too late.’

‘My wife died of plague as well,’ piped up the stringy fellow to my right, leaning over, eager to engage in conversation. ‘With some it was quick and painless. I saw a man walk down the street, swinging his arms and tipping his hat, all smiles and “how-do-you-do’s”. Then he stopped and clasped a hand to his chest, like you just did.’ He stared, eyes wide as soup bowls. ‘Then he fell forwards, dead. When they rolled him over they found tokens on his chest.’

I nodded, thinking of a medic I watched fall face forwards into his dinner. ‘I once beheld a similar thing.’

‘Aye, well, he was lucky.’ The man stuck out his lower lip and banged his small fist upon the table. ‘My wife suffered six days afore she died. Awful to behold, the agony she endured. The night before Death took her, I had to fetch her from the river. She leapt from the window and ran naked down Creed Lane and on towards the river. She jumped in and I had to leap in after to fetch her out.’

‘She was hot, I suppose,’ I heard myself say.

The man’s little face collapsed in a fierce glare. ‘Aye, she was hot, of course she was hot. Why else should she jump in the river?’

‘For in much wisdom is much grief, and he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow.’ Dowling leant over and patted the man’s hand, which action seemed to frighten the poor fellow, for he sat back and regarded Dowling with timorous eye.

Did John Collis’s wife jump into the river? Behind each shadowed face around this table hid a lifetime of experience, tales of tragedy and joy, darkness and hope, few clues of which manifested themselves in tired expressions.

Not every man became wiser with sorrow. Some became angry and bitter. The world was a different place since the plague’s grim visitation. The King’s return to Whitehall symbolised a new beginning, yet the shadow of the Pest stretched long. Dead relatives, lost friends, missing neighbours. Though the City simmered quiet, behind that melancholy facade lurked fury. You heard it in the words of those who spoke of King and Parliament, of others that spoke of the Dutch with whom we were at war, or the Catholic French, or even God.

I was more afeared than angry, afeared of Lord Arlington. Officially, I still reported to him. He was an evil fellow, who plotted to kill us both at St Albans. Instead I saved his life and he hadn’t spoken to me since. I bided my time nestled in the sweet arms of the Mermaid every afternoon, not leaving while still I could walk. I shook my head and determined to think only happy thoughts.

‘How is Jane?’ asked Dowling.

‘She is well,’ I replied thoughtfully. ‘Her usual noxious self. When the plague arrived in London she nagged me incessantly to leave; after we left she nagged me incessantly to return. Now she complains that all men are self-pitying miseries.’ Me mostly.

Jane was my house servant. I fetched her to Cocksmouth out of the goodness of my big heart. There my mother lived in a small house with her brother Robert and several pigs. They invited me to sleep in my dead grandmother’s room, out back, and arranged for Jane to live with an elderly woman in the village, who walked in her sleep and dribbled constantly out the side of her mouth. A dreadful place, yet the only safe haven I had access to. We lived in Purgatory for six months, with only each other to rely on for sane conversation. Though she maintained her usual foul temper with effortless ease, something stirred between us, something mysterious I could not yet comprehend. All I knew for sure was that we ended up in a warm, sticky embrace one quiet afternoon, the consequences of which were still to play themselves out.

‘We lay together,’ I whispered.

‘Lay where?’ he asked, hoarse.

‘Upon my jacket to begin with,’ I replied. ‘Though she quickly pulled me over onto the grass.’

‘You lay with her?’ Dowling hissed, spittle spraying against my ear.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ I protested. ‘Nor did she.’

I blamed six months in Cocksmouth. Six months safe from plague but not so safe from a more insidious infection that penetrated a man’s skull and caused it to gently rot. Boredom. Never was I so bored in all my life. Isolated from tavern, playhouse and every other occupation man invented to keep himself entertained. Except one.

A strange, guttural whine emanated from Dowling’s open mouth. I barely smothered a loud laugh upon contemplating his horrified expression. Instead I snorted beer out of both nostrils.

He jabbed my shoulder with iron forefinger. ‘And when Shechem the son of Hamor the Hivite saw her, he took her, and lay with her, and defiled her.’

‘Who was Shechem, son of Hamor the Hivite?’ I struggled to recall.

‘He defiled Dinah, daughter of Jacob,’ Dowling kept poking me. ‘And in return the sons of Jacob insisted that every man in the city be circumcised, and when they had done it they came upon the city and slew every male.’

I nudged his finger away. ‘I did not defile her. We defiled each other.’

‘You are the master and she the servant,’ Dowling whispered a little too loud. John Collis turned his head slowly towards us. His wife already watched wide-eyed, repulsed. I tried to smile.

‘We shall talk about it later,’ I said, firmly. ‘When ye may circumcise me at your will.’

Dowling simmered, like a cauldron of hot water.

I bent my head towards him. ‘What is it like to be married?’ I whispered, regarding Collis and his wife out the corner of my eye. I saw no sign of celebration upon his ruddy chops. What force inspired him to enter into such intimate union with so little enthusiasm? ‘You’ve been married many years.’

Dowling perked up. ‘You are getting married?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ I answered quickly, rubbing my sore arm.

In truth, I didn’t know what I thought. I always maintained a strange fancy for Jane despite her constant ferocity, for I reckoned she couldn’t possibly be so angry with me unless she nurtured a passion that matched the intensity of her fury. If that passion was hatred, then why did she stay with me? A question I asked myself constantly. Yet before we travelled to Cocksmouth, never had I touched even a hair on her head with the end of my finger. To do so would have invited a swift and painful retribution. In Cocksmouth, though, she shared with me a different passion entirely.

‘I don’t think she would marry me,’ I said, for once we returned to my little house on Bread Street she returned to old behaviours. I tried to stroke her hair once and she almost cut off one of my fingers with a chopping knife. I showed the finger to Dowling, the scar still angry and red.

I wondered, though. Would she marry me if I became an apothecary? A happy apothecary, who didn’t go to the Mermaid more than once or twice a week?

The stringy fellow stared. Collis watched me too, stiff-necked and mournful. There would be no flinging of the stocking tonight, nor escorting of the newly wedded to their bedchamber. Not by me anyway.

I thought of Jane again. Today was Thursday and Thursday brings crosses, I thought, becoming gloomy. God save us from more of those. Red crosses on doors marked whole streets at the worst of it. When Jane became infected, someone painted my door. A faint outline remained, despite my best efforts to brush every mark of it away. The legacy of plague would never be wholly removed.

I reached across to pour myself another cup of warm beer but Dowling pushed the jug away. ‘Slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep and an idle soul shall suffer hunger.’

Hunger perhaps, but not thirst. He was still cross with me.

Collis’s wife put a hand to her mouth and bowed her head afore suddenly running from the room, gagging. I saw a glint upon her finger. ‘He gave her a posy ring,’ I noticed. Now she had left, perhaps I might too.

Dowling watched, concerned. ‘Inscribed faithless to none yet faithful to one.’

I regarded the groom with new respect. Poetry indeed.

‘It is a shame this place stinks so bad,’ I reflected, ‘but perhaps it is a good sign. It’s good luck when the bride sheds tears, which she shall surely do when she vomits.’

Dowling clicked his tongue and crossed his arms.

‘Whoever wed in August be, many a change is sure to see,’ I said. ‘For them today may mark a change in fortune.’

‘Not this year,’ the man to my right chirped again. ‘The people will be generally troubled and the King shall be subject to internal scheming.’

A pessimist then. I ignored him.

Collis rubbed his lips together and stretched his neck towards the door, eager it seemed to relocate his wife, though not so eager he considered getting to his feet. The bridesman to his left rubbed his hands together and showed his teeth in nervous smile. He searched the room for a kindred spirit to join him in lifting the mood. None offered. Collis raised himself to his feet at last, sheepish expression upon his fleshy face, and walked unsteadily out the room, waddling like a duck. I scanned the serious faces about me, each staring into space like their heads slept.

I felt suddenly sanguine, blood coursing through my veins, heart pumping. Now Collis and his bride were gone I felt free to make my own farewells. I swigged a deep draught of ale while Dowling nodded politely at an old man sat opposite. The old man sneered, sniffed loudly and continued to chew upon the inside of his mouth. The mood of this dull gathering matched the mood of London itself, still mourning its dead, wallowing in lethargic woe. A melancholy humour infecting us all. It would not affect me. Time to stop moping about the house in daytime, and drinking myself into senseless oblivion at night. I would become an apothecary, whatever scepticism I might face, and I would start the journey tomorrow. No Mermaid for me tonight, nor the next.

‘I’m going home,’ I announced to Dowling, pushing the ale jug away. ‘I will not remain mired in this foul stink.’ I eyed my mug still half full. ‘I will see you soon. If ye’d be so good as to tell Collis I can abide the smell of it no longer. Tell him I am taken sick.’ I drained the mug, for there seemed no point in wasting it, and stood up straight, bursting with intent. And I would ask Jane to marry me. Maybe.

The corridor was quiet, save for the sound of a low buzzing behind the cellar door. I stepped out onto the street, savouring the slight summer breeze blowing across the black night air.

‘Lytle,’ a quiet voice sounded close to my ear.

I swivelled upon my heel, stumbling against the wall. A tall shadow stood against the pale moon, tall and broad.

‘You cannot know how much it pleases me to renew your acquaintance,’ the voice declared.

I held my breath as the figure stepped forward. I tried to speak, but managed just a gurgle. My nightmare stood afront of me, mouth grinning wide, eyes fixed upon me like a giant cat. He looked the same as he did before, save for the pockmarks upon his young face.

‘Forman died,’ he said, voice thick with hatred, as if it was me who killed him.

Forman had been his partner, an older man, just as vicious, but calmer and more measured.

‘Wharton tied you both up,’ I croaked. ‘He killed the others, besides.’

‘And you killed Wharton,’ Withypoll nodded slowly. ‘I know. And you left me bound to a dead woman. You knew she was plagued.’ The cruel smile evaporated. ‘I recall now the moment you saw her infection. You fell back onto the floor, staring at her neck. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I remembered it afterwards. And when you saw it, you left us there, trapped.’

‘Because you tried to kill me!’ I protested. ‘You would have killed me at the Three Cranes, you would have killed me at St Vedast.’

Withypoll nodded. ‘Would have, but failed.’ He drew a long silver blade from the inside of his coat and held the tip afront of my eyes. ‘I will not fail again.’

I thought to run, down the street or back into the house, but he stepped to his left, blocking my passage back towards the wedding party. Then he raised a languid brow, daring me to turn and flee.

‘Today, though, I must take you to Lord Arlington.’ He lowered the knife. ‘You and Dowling; he wants to see you.’ He smiled again, like he recalled a favourite joke.

My heart sank, all optimism dispersed. ‘You work for Arlington now?’

‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘Just me alone. Forman died.’

Which was the second time he told me.

He snapped and clicked his fingers. ‘Fetch Dowling. Your life is about to change.’

Chapter Two

It, viz. the year 1666, hath been ushered in with three preceding Comets, or Blazing Stars; and as unto us in England it’s attended with a grievous and consuming Plague or Pestilence, concomitant with a chargeable war against the Hollanders.

Dust stung my eyes, dancing thick in the musty air. Rubble lay strewn across the floor and thick webs curtained the corners. A single narrow slit in the wall admitted a light breeze. The Develin Tower had been boarded up for years, a ruinous mess upon the west wall of the Tower of London.

A stout man slouched in the middle of the room, hand tied to a wooden block nailed to a table. A fleshy fellow, well fed and prosperous, light-brown hair streaked with grey. Sweat beaded in small drops at his temples and his hair stuck to his forehead, plastered with blood. A purple lump bulged above his right eyelid. He watched us through his left eye, silent and bewildered.

Lord Arlington leant upon an upturned barrel, mouth pinched, brow hanging heavy. He stood when we entered, approaching with outstretched arms, cold face split by a false, yellow smile. I thought for a moment he would envelop me in the folds of his brown, silk jacket, but he stopped short, still smiling, eyes dark and fishy. I tried not to stare at the black plaster across the bridge of his nose, memento of an old battle.

‘Such a long time since last we met,’ he exclaimed. ‘St Albans, wasn’t it?’

‘Aye, your lordship,’ I replied, dry-mouthed.

He tucked his arms behind his back and cocked his head. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘What happened that day?’

I glanced sideways at Dowling, but he stood frozen. Withypoll sauntered into the room, stopping behind Arlington’s shoulder, face twisted in delighted expectation of chewing on my heart.

‘You helped us realise Wharton wasn’t dead,’ I began, sidling closer to Dowling. ‘You led us to St Albans to arrest him, where he attacked us.’

‘So he did,’ Arlington nodded slowly. ‘I do recall.’

‘You and he locked in combat,’ I continued, mouth dry. ‘You were on the verge of defeating him, when I slew him from behind.’

Arlington wrinkled his nose, unimpressed. He wiped dust from his shoulder and coughed. Truth was he betrayed us. He left us to travel to St Albans by ourselves, then arrived with a band of French soldiers to kill everyone, including us. Wharton outwitted him and I saved his rotten life.

‘Have I not remembered well?’ I asked.

‘I had him at my mercy, Lytle,’ said Arlington, pointing. ‘I would have fetched him back to London to stand trial, but you struck him from behind with a butcher’s knife.’

A grave misrepresentation. Had I not thrown the cleaver at Wharton’s head then Arlington would have died.

Arlington turned to Dowling. ‘Was it not so, Dowling?’

Dowling hadn’t even been there. He had arrived later. Now he stared forward, unwilling to tell the lie.

‘It was,’ I lied on his behalf. ‘Yet we served you as best we could. If our efforts were not good enough, we humbly accept our dismissal.’

Arlington frowned. ‘Dismissal?’

Withypoll shook his head slow, an expression of regret.

Arlington glowered. ‘Some demanded you be put to death for the unlawful killing of nobility, but I insisted on lenience. I protected you.’

I doubted it. ‘So we are in your debt?’

‘You owe me your lives.’

I nodded at Withypoll. ‘How long has he been working for you?’

‘Since he escaped from where you left him bound,’ said Arlington, disapprovingly. ‘I find it difficult to credit how cruel must have been your humour, Lytle. To leave a man bound to an infected corpse.’

I closed my eyes. There was little to be gained in attempting to explain the events of a year ago. Arlington had already decided our fate, and no words of mine would change that. When I said nothing, he grunted, then waved at the stout man bound in the middle of the room. ‘I should like to introduce you to Edward Josselin.’

The stout man blinked at the mention of his name and jerked his hand against the bindings.

‘His son is another ungrateful wretch,’ Arlington sneered. ‘A traitor and a coward, fled into hiding.’

The older man’s jaw dropped, as if to say something, but he stopped himself in time. He bowed his head like he feared being struck, and cast a frightened glance at Withypoll.

Arlington clicked a finger at Withypoll. ‘Give me the knife.’

Withypoll dug into his jacket and withdrew a square-bladed cleaver. He handed it to Arlington, who handed it to me.

‘Chop off his finger,’ Arlington commanded.

My arm fell to my side, weak as a child’s. I prayed he intended only to intimidate me, yet he and Withypoll watched expectantly, unsmiling and intense. Edward Josselin blinked and tugged sharply again at his trapped hand. I looked down at the knife, a broad-bladed carving knife with weathered, wooden handle. I opened my fingers and dropped it clattering onto the stone floor.

A small smile appeared upon Arlington’s lips. ‘Do you not recognise it? It’s the knife you used to kill Thomas Wharton.’

Dowling bent down and picked it up. ‘Neither of us will cut off this man’s finger,’ he growled, clenching the handle of the knife tight in his fist.

Arlington drew the rapier from his belt and levelled it at Dowling’s throat. ‘Cut off his finger, Lytle, else I will stick that blade in the back of your skull, same as you did to Wharton.’

Josselin wriggled and squirmed, whimpering. I wanted to reassure him, release him from the restraints that bound him, but Withypoll stood at my elbow. Josselin’s hand was pegged out flat, leaving bare his first knuckles. Only his little finger wriggled free, untied. Torture was illegal in England, and those found guilty of committing such atrocities risked being hanged by the neck, and sliced from sternum to groin. If I chopped off Josselin’s finger, I would be a party to torture.

‘Might I know why?’ I asked, scalp prickling.

‘Edward Josselin is a traitor,’ said Arlington, pricking Dowling’s throat with his blade. ‘A traitor to King and country.’

‘I am not a traitor,’ Josselin whispered, eyes wide. ‘I have been loyal to the King all my life. My son too.’

Arlington snorted. ‘Your son is a spy and betrayed us all. You chose to veil his treachery. Your country or your kin, and you chose your perfidious kin.’

Josselin sunk in his chair; heavy, old head slumped upon his chest. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Which made two of us.

‘Your son killed the Earl of Berkshire and fled to Essex,’ Arlington spat.

‘Whoever murdered the Earl of Berkshire, it was not my son,’ Josselin insisted, emphatic, momentarily unafraid.

‘Cut off his finger, Lytle,’ Arlington growled. ‘I won’t tell you again.’

I took a deep breath and exhaled through my nose. My head swam and I placed my legs apart so I wouldn’t fall over. His little finger trembled like a trapped mouse, the only finger I could possibly sever without risk of chopping two or even three. I ran my own fingers across my forehead, through a thick sheen of sweat. My first thought was to raise the blade and take a swing, but what if I missed? I might cut off his whole hand. It would be safer to place the tip of the blade in the wood of the table and lever it down slowly.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What purpose will it serve?’

‘Cut off his finger or I will cut off your head,’ Withypoll’s voice sounded, wet in my ear.

I thought for a moment to slice the knife across Withypoll’s throat instead. Yet that would still leave Arlington alive, and he could conjure up a thousand other Withypolls. Josselin stared, pleading, desperate to read my intent. Withypoll stretched out a hand towards the cleaver. If I let him prise it from my grasp, then he would use it on me. My life or Josselin’s finger. I stepped to the table and positioned the knife.

‘May God forgive me,’ I whispered, feeling my veins rush with strange energy. I stared into Josselin’s bewildered eyes. ‘Don’t move.’ Then I brought the blade down swiftly afore he could think.

He screamed and yanked at his hand. For a moment I saw flesh and bone, a perfect section, afore thick red blood welled forth like hot jam inside a pudding. He didn’t scream again, just watched agape, the blood draining from his face faster than it bled from his finger. Bile surged into my throat, my skin burnt, and the room seemed to ripple.

Withypoll leant forward and prodded at the small piece of digit lain lonely upon the wood, barely big enough to pick up. ‘His Lordship told you to cut off his finger.’

I threw the blade on the table. ‘Aye, and so I did, and I’m not cutting off any more.’ My body trembled and I felt sickness in my stomach. I couldn’t stop my hand from shaking.

Arlington shook his head and lowered his sword, afore nodding gently at Withypoll. Withypoll picked up the cleaver and cut off the rest of Josselin’s small finger like he was slicing sausage. This time Josselin screamed with all his lungs.

I grabbed an old mouchoir from the bottom of my pocket and tried to quell the river of blood streaming across the surface of the table. ‘What would you have him tell you?’ I shouted. Blood soaked through four layers of cloth in a second. The severed finger lay by itself, a most unnatural apparition. Dowling seized the old man’s hand and pushed the mouchoir firmly against the wound.

Arlington watched our efforts, amused. ‘What will you do, Lytle, when we hew off his hand? Will you take off your shirt?’

‘Why should you hew off his hand?’ I demanded, heart pounding.

‘My son is not a spy,’ wailed Josselin, torso folded over upon the table, drool dripping from the corners of his mouth.

Arlington pushed me backwards, towards the wall. Dust billowed about our heads, prickling at my nose and throat. ‘You asked to work for me, did you not?’

My face must have appeared blank.

‘You asked Dowling to promote your cause.’ Arlington jerked his chin upwards. ‘Is that not so?’

I watched Dowling’s back as he held Josselin’s hand tight. Indeed it was true, back in the days when I thought it would be a noble occupation. Why had Dowling not warned me off?

‘Well here we are,’ Arlington hissed. ‘And this is what we do. It is my job to protect the citizens of this country and the King himself. If you doubt my sincerity, then consider what happened to our King’s own father, executed by his people.’ He breathed hard through his nose, black plaster rising and falling. ‘I carry an enormous responsibility, as does every man that works for me, and every man that works for me should be strong enough to carry that burden. Do you understand?’

I understood. Withypoll well enough to know murder was no hardship, and Arlington well enough to know he cared nothing for the citizenry. I nodded, for I could not bring myself to speak. He wanted me dead, I was sure of it. So why did he not just instruct Withypoll to be done with it?

Josselin groaned loudly.

‘This man’s son is a spy and a murderer, Lytle, and his treachery has put at risk any chance of peace with the Dutch.’ Arlington wrapped his fingers about my neck. ‘So save your pity and your tears. There can be no mercy.’

‘How do you know James Josselin killed Berkshire?’ Dowling demanded, pale-faced, regarding Arlington as he would a beast.

Arlington waved a hand in front of his nose as if bothered by the smell of blood. ‘They found Josselin’s blade sticking out of Berkshire’s chest, pinning him to the chair in which he sat, and Josselin ran away.’

‘Perhaps he took fright,’ I ventured. ‘Else was abducted by the murderers.’

Arlington released his grip and scowled. ‘I have not summoned you here to debate the man’s guilt. Mine own intelligence network confirms his treachery. I have spies in all places, here and in Holland. We will win the war because of it.’ He puffed out his chest and stared down his nose. Dowling’s baggy eyes narrowed.

‘My son is not a traitor, nor a murderer,’ cried Josselin.

Arlington slammed a fist down upon the table. ‘Shake your head, you villainous rogue,’ he roared. ‘No man here is touched by your wickedness!’

Josselin said nothing, just lay his head upon his arm, staring at his mutilated hand like it was his son, an intimate gaze of infinite sadness. A tear rolled down his cheek.

‘Enough of this, Withypoll,’ Arlington exclaimed, as if we ruined his day. ‘End it.’

Arlington pulled from his coat a thin, short blade, a bright, shiny spike mounted upon a leather-clad handle, and handed it to his covetous accomplice. Withypoll took the strange weapon in his palm and regarded it as if it was a great jewel. Then he seized Josselin by the hair, lifted him up and wrenched his body backwards, plunging the blade so deep into his heart the handle stuck in his ribs. Josselin’s eyelids fluttered a brief moment, then he lay motionless, sprawled back upon his chair, hand still bound to the block. A small circle of blood formed upon his chest.

From Dowling’s mouth emanated a sigh of utter sadness and misery. Withypoll rubbed his hands together, smug satisfaction etched upon his vile features. Arlington scowled. Dowling and I stared, stunned and appalled. The blood seeped quickly outwards.

‘I am disappointed in you both.’ Arlington spoke to Dowling this time. ‘You killed Wharton’s wife, did you not? And a Frenchman. Yet you baulk at the killing of a traitor.’

Withypoll picked at the knife handle with his fingertips, oblivious to the oozing blood, but it stuck fast. He would need another knife to dig that one loose.

‘The Earl of Berkshire was a man of peace,’ Arlington declared. ‘An envoy to the Dutch when we sought reconciliation. His efforts were scorned. Now he is dead.’ He stared at me like I was a Dutchman. ‘The Four Day Battle was no victory.’

He said it as if it was a great secret. Though instructions were issued to light bonfires and celebrate, every man in London knew we were annihilated. Rupert took half the fleet to Plymouth to watch for the French, rumoured to be heading for Ireland, leaving Albemarle to fight the Dutch by himself. It transpired the French had no intention of invading Ireland, an error attributed by some to Arlington and his flawed intelligence, the same network that said this man’s son was a traitor. The same network that condemned Edward Josselin to death.

Dowling stroked the dead man’s hair, a strange look upon his face, angry and sad at the same time.

‘James Josselin worked for me,’ said Arlington. ‘He was privy to the most secret of intelligence and I trusted him. He swore his allegiance too, Lytle.’

‘Why do you question my allegiance?’ I snapped, anger provoked. Little good ever came of giving it voice, but my mouth was busy. ‘I pursued Wharton to St Albans. I killed him when I thought he endangered your life.’

Arlington smiled. ‘I am happy to hear you confirm your loyalty.’ He placed his hands behind his back and leant forward. ‘You will go to Essex,’ he said, daring me to protest. ‘Withypoll will go with you as far as Colchester.’

So that was it. The thin, puckered face of the man who sat next to me at dinner formed before me, the grating sound of his shrill voice echoing in my ear. He said 1666 would be a sickly year, a year when the plague would slither out of London to wreak its evil upon other towns and cities. London was free at last, like a great old bear, beaten to its knees, bloody but unbowed. The worst was over, the Pestilence gone, in search of new feeding grounds, bounteous and plentiful, and Essex was where it went, Colchester the worst afflicted. Arlington sent us back to Hell.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Because that is where James Josselin fled,’ Arlington replied. ‘To Shyam, where none will follow.’

‘Where is Shyam?’

‘Shyam is a small village,’ Dowling spoke up. ‘Where the plague has chosen to make its home. Three hundred people lived there before the Pest began its killings. They have closed their boundaries and allow no man in nor out.’

‘You are well informed, Dowling,’ Arlington noted approvingly. ‘The Reverend of Shyam persuaded them all to stay, so as not to infect other villages to the north and east. Any man that ventures within its boundaries is obliged to remain until the plague is gone.’ He gazed admiringly into the gloom. ‘What a man he must be, that influences men to lay down their lives for others, especially the rude sort of fellow that lives in such places.’

‘You want us to go to this Shyam?’ I exclaimed, aghast.

Arlington nodded. ‘To fetch James Josselin. Alive.’

Withypoll sat on the table, grinning with all his sharp teeth. He was sent to Colchester; not a much better prospect, but he survived the plague once already. He clearly believed himself immune to further infection.

Arlington’s eyes were unrepentant. He did not expect us to return. If we did, he would kill us later. I looked to Dowling. His face was set, hard as stone.

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘We will make preparations.’ Preparations to flee, for nothing would entice me eastward.

Arlington pointed to Josselin’s dead body, mouth open, dull eyes staring at the ceiling. ‘First you will dispose of that, and dispose of it well.’

He nodded at Withypoll, who stretched his arms wide and yawned. ‘Tomorrow you take them to Whitehall, so they may see the scene of Berkshire’s murder.’

Withypoll nodded, like he had it already planned.

Arlington headed for the door. ‘Fail and you will both rot in Hell,’ he called over his shoulder as he left the room. Withypoll followed with languid stride. Josselin’s finger rolled gently off the table and landed on the floor with a soft thud, coming to a rest next to my heavy heart.

I thought I left such villainy behind on my way to becoming a happily married apothecary. Instead I cut off the tip of a man’s finger and faced a journey back into the Hell of plague. I escaped Death last year. To court him twice was madness.

Josselin stared at the wall with dull grey eyes.

‘What now, Davy?’ I said at last.

‘God will guide us,’ he replied. With less mischief than he had done thus far, I hoped. The grey pallor painted upon Dowling’s craggy face betrayed uncertainty of faith. I had never seen him so undone.

‘What shall we do with the body?’ he asked, picking at the bindings about the dead man’s hand.

I was sick of bodies.

‘I know a place,’ I muttered. ‘I used to work here, remember?’

Chapter Three

Comets are to be observed; usually they produce such effects as are the nature of Mars and Mercury, and there signifies Wars, hot, turbulent commotions.

Jane’s green eyes burnt into my cheek as I entered the front door and removed my jacket. The tip of her finger stabbed into my midriff when I forgot to shake the dirt from my shoes.

‘It’s dark,’ she snapped. ‘Why are you returned so late? You said it would be a dull affair.’ She stood upon her tiptoes and tried to sniff my breath.

She meant the wedding, I realised. ‘So it was,’ I answered. It seemed so long ago now. I couldn’t recall the last time I returned so late, so sober.

She directed her attentions to Dowling, who followed me over the threshold. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to pay my regards,’ he replied slow, unable to stop staring. ‘I haven’t seen you in a while.’

I attempted to lose him twice upon the way home, but he wouldn’t be deterred.

‘Aye, well here I am,’ she frowned, perplexed, sniffing the air again. ‘Now tell me where you have been so late?’

My mind’s eye still watched Josselin’s body slowly sinking into the water. I had little appetite for one of Jane’s sermons. I needed a drink and headed for the kitchen in search of ale. I wondered how to tell her of our journey east. ‘Come, and I will tell you.’

‘You plan to talk to me?’ she declared in mock astonishment, following with quick steps. ‘Why so wormy-tongued? I have no dinner for ye, and no speech will persuade me to cook at this late hour.’

I wasn’t hungry. ‘We have been set a puzzle that may be beyond our capacity to resolve.’

She snorted. ‘If that were a reason for talking, we would spend every evening at the table.’ She scowled at Dowling, who would not take his eyes off her. ‘Will you have an ale, butcher? You look like you are about to faint.’

‘No, no.’ He waved a hand. ‘I will just sit a while.’

Jane clicked her tongue and eyed him, suspicious, afore fetching a jug of ale, a cup and a dish of oysters. ‘Tell me your tale, and spin it fast, for I would go to bed.’

Dowling smiled, hiding the expression quickly before she could spot it.

‘We must go away tomorrow,’ I told her, already feeling the need to defend myself. ‘And though I cannot think why I feel so obliged, I will leave you instruction should I not return for a while.’

She leant forwards and wrinkled her small freckled nose. ‘You will leave me instruction? That assumes there is something you are qualified to instruct me upon. Since I have no desire to emulate your enviable ability to piss with one hand and drink with the other, I wonder what other instruction you feel compelled to share with me.’

‘Do you always talk to me like this when I come home late at night?’ I struggled to recall. ‘Perhaps you forget, you are my servant.’

‘No servant of yours could ever forget it,’ Jane growled, cheeks flushed. ‘Not the day of the appointment, nor the detail of each day subsequent.’

‘Most servants would be glad to have me as their master,’ I protested. ‘I pay you well. I send money to your brother, to the brother of your sister’s husband, and to your uncle with the swollen head. Indeed I have never declined to help any member of your family, though they are legion. Yet you talk about me as if I am the Devil incarnate.’ I suddenly remembered. ‘And I saved your life.’

‘You don’t send money to my uncle, for he died more than a year ago,’ she retorted. ‘And you didn’t save my life.’ She leant back and folded her arms against her plump breasts. ‘Ruth saved my life. You took the opportunity to gaze upon my naked body, and do not think I have forgiven you for it.’

I sighed, sat down and filled my cup. We had debated many times before. In fact it was I, at great risk to myself, who entered my house when she suffered plague and tended to her while a drunken nurse lay slobbering and snoring downstairs. I changed Jane’s clothes when she lay in her own foulness. It was I who ejected the wretched harridan and found a new one, this Ruth.

‘You have gazed upon my naked body too, I reckon,’ I replied.

‘Aye, bathed in sweat and stinking of ale,’ she snapped. ‘For which task I could never be adequately rewarded.’ She peered out from behind strands of blazing red hair, green eyes sparkling. She was beautiful and I didn’t want to leave her.

‘Anyway.’ I slumped back in my chair. ‘Tomorrow we must go to Essex.’ I gazed back into her bright eyes, when usually I would look away. ‘To some small village north of Colchester.’

Her top lip jumped up to her nose, revealing sharp white teeth. ‘Is this a riddle? You take me for a fool and I will poke out your eye.’

‘No riddle.’ I drained my cup and filled it again. ‘Lord Arlington summoned us this afternoon and issued those orders. We are to leave in the morning. Ask him.’ I attempted to divert her attention towards Dowling.

Dowling buried his nose in an oyster shell.

‘What did you do?’ she exclaimed. ‘Spit in the King’s dinner? He might as well send you to Tyburn. I thought Arlington was your great new benefactor, your passage to wealth and fortune.’

‘So did I,’ I reflected.

‘Tell me, then!’

I ducked quick to avoid the arm she flung at me. ‘I hoped he would be grateful I saved his life.’

Jane glowered. ‘You stripped him naked and gazed upon his body too?’

‘No,’ I replied, fist clenched. ‘I saved his life. Yet he doesn’t trust me. He is afraid I might divulge the truth of his devious, black soul.’

‘As would I be if I were him, the amount of time you spend at the Mermaid lain drunk upon the floor.’ Jane raised her brows like I was a great fool. It was a good point I had not considered.

She prodded Dowling’s shoulder. ‘So he has sent you both on some strange pilgrimage of repentance.’

‘Whether we repent or not is of no interest to him,’ Dowling replied. ‘He wants us to find a man called James Josselin.’

I watched the two candles flicker in a sudden breeze that invaded from the corridor. Jane shook her head, lips pinched tight. ‘If you two ninnies wander woolly-headed into Essex then you will both die. The plague is worse there than it was here. They say half Colchester is dead already. For what did we spend six months living with pigs if it was not to escape the Pest?’ I saw tears in the corners of her eyes and felt my own eyes burning.

‘If we do not go, Arlington will have us killed.’

‘Who is this James Josselin?’

‘Arlington says he is a murderer, though Dowling and I have our doubts.’

‘Ha!’ Jane exclaimed. ‘You have your doubts. So you will ask this renegade the truth of it and he will confide all in you two? I think not.’ She pulled a face like she sucked upon a lemon. ‘“Excuse me, sir,” says the butcher. “Wilt thou reveal unto me whether or not you be a murderer, that we may inform the Honourable Lord Arlington, that doth search for you?” The gentleman thinketh.’ Jane frowned and looked to the ceiling. ‘“Why do you hesitate, good man?” enquires the short fellow that doth nothing but drink. “Do ye not trust our good intent?” With that the short fellow doth belch loudly, thus convincing the man who doth doubt his integrity, that these two good fellows are deserving of his trust.’

Dowling laughed out loud until he met her gimlet eye.

I saw she was afraid. Strange how quick I recognised it these days.

‘We have to attempt it else he will have us killed anyway.’ I said. ‘We are to go to Shyam and fetch Josselin back to London, with the help of one of Arlington’s agents, a murderous dog.’

‘If Arlington and his agent know where this man skulks, then what use are you two buffoons?’

‘Josselin has taken refuge in a small village where the plague is rife, where the villagers have closed their boundaries,’ I answered. ‘We are appointed to fetch him out.’

She dropped her hands and stared, speechless. A rare event.

‘So the instruction I would leave you relates to the disposal of my estate,’ I said, soft.

‘Your estate!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why tell me of your estate?’

‘Because I have no one else to leave it to,’ I replied. ‘I might as well leave the house and monies to you.’

She stood bolt upright, shoulders hunched about her ears, arms held out stiff like the wings of a tall, wading bird. ‘To me?’ Her voice echoed strangely deep, like the uttering of a demon.

‘Aye.’ I watched nervous as she stepped closer. ‘I have no one else to leave it to.’

She lowered her face and breathed over my nose. She smelt of sage and mint, just as she had that afternoon in Cocksmouth. ‘Leave it to your mother,’ she hissed. ‘Or leave it to her brother. But don’t you dare try and leave it to me.’

‘You don’t want it?’

‘You tell me you are sent to Essex.’ Her hand shot out towards my neck and I caught it just in time. ‘That you will likely die.’ Her voice tremored and tears gathered in long pools above her lower lashes. I hadn’t seen her weep before.

‘I didn’t say I would likely die,’ I protested. ‘You did.’

She screamed loudly into my face, sweet lips wide apart, head thrust forward like an angry rooster. Once all the breath was blown from her body she fell back onto her heels and gazed, wide-eyed and bewildered.

Dowling lumbered to his feet and attempted to wrap an arm about her shoulder. ‘I will look after him.’

‘What!’ She pushed away his arm and peered into his great blank face. ‘You will defend him from the plague will you, butcher? Methinks not. And why do you sit there all moonfaced, anyway?’ Her eyes widened and she turned to me. My heart sunk to somewhere close to my toes and I wished I had not admitted him into the house.

‘You told him,’ she whispered. ‘You told him!’

I opened my mouth and prayed for words of wisdom. Nothing happened.

‘We were at a wedding,’ Dowling ventured bravely. ‘He asked me what it was like being married.’

She stared at me, green eyes flashing.

‘He said I was like Shechem, son of Hamor the Hivite,’ I added, unable to think of anything sensible to say.

Her top lip peeled back slowly from her teeth. I wondered where to put my hands. I edged about the wall of my kitchen heading for the door, but afore I could escape she flung herself at me and wrapped her arms about my back in iron embrace. I grimaced in anticipation of being bitten on the neck, but instead I felt hot, wet breath somewhere close to my ear. I shivered and held her afront of me. She ducked her head to hide her eyes, then flung herself at me again, lifting her head and gazing up. Her lips parted and I felt something stir deep within. And something else, not so deep within.

‘I’ll keep my estate, Jane, and be back in a week,’ I assured her, feeling helpless.

At which she chewed her lip, scowled like Dowling, and stomped down the corridor and up the stairs. Leaving me stood in the kitchen in a state of complete confusion. Women speak two languages, quoth the Bard, one of which is verbal. The other I did not understand.

I followed her upstairs and knocked gently upon the door of her room, leaving Dowling to let himself out.

Chapter Four

These blazing stars appear but seldom, they without all doubt portend very great Calamities.

Next morning we met Withypoll at Whitehall.

All that remained of Berkshire’s body was a wide black stain upon the rich yellow fabric of an intricately carved, upholstered chair. All about was deathly quiet. I scanned the small room: polished walls, squat French console with legs bowed like a bulldog, a tall walnut chest of drawers. All positioned about the edge of a fine, oriental rug laid precisely upon the wooden floor. I stole a glance out the window towards the river, saw the boats meandering well away from the well-guarded jetty. Behind us lay the Privy Garden, the King’s private place of reflection and repose.

‘Arlington said they found him pinned by James Josselin’s blade,’ I recalled. ‘How did he know it was Josselin’s blade?’

Withypoll sauntered across the marquetry floor of the panelled room like a prudish heron. Circling the chair, he opened the door of a tall, narrow cupboard. He reached inside, turned quick and tossed a sword at me. I leapt backwards as the weapon clattered to the floor. Its steel blade stretched two feet long, shiny at the tip, scarlet stain along its shaft. Two intertwined letter ‘J’s formed the bar cage, intricate and beautiful.

‘The scabbard is missing,’ said Withypoll. ‘But the weapon is Josselin’s. Every man at court would swear it.’

‘So Josselin marched into the heart of the palace, killed a man with his own blade, then left it for all to see,’ I said.

‘Marching into the palace was simple,’ said Withypoll. ‘He came here often. He was obviously interrupted and ran away. It matters not whether he left his blade or not. He was caught in the act.’

‘Who interrupted him?’ Dowling growled.

‘The guards, a servant, whoever was around,’ Withypoll replied, dismissively. ‘It is of no import. Arlington told me to show you the scene of his death, not to answer foolish questions.’

‘Seen and chased then.’ I moved slowly back to the door and looked out. ‘Across the courtyard and out into the gallery.’

Withypoll glided into a position behind my right shoulder. ‘So I presume.’

‘You presume a lot.’

‘Talk to me again like that, Lytle,’ Withypoll hissed into my ear, ‘and I shall prick your tiny heart.’

His warm breath lingered upon my neck and I felt my face flush. I determined to keep my mouth closed.

Dowling dropped to his knees in front of the chair and sniffed at the dried blood like a dog. He poked his finger into the torn cloth, wriggled it, then stood up and twisted the heavy chair about with one hand, revealing a long, ragged tear. ‘No blood at the back.’ He dropped the chair, pulled the edges of the material apart, and invited us to peer within.

‘The blood poured out of his chest, butcher,’ Withypoll retorted. ‘Not his back.’

‘Aye,’ Dowling nodded. ‘But when a blade cuts through a piece of meat it carries the blood with it. Unless the blade is swung fast and with great force.’

‘I have never heard of a man stabbing another man to death slowly,’ said Withypoll.

‘Indeed,’ Dowling conceded. ‘But by the time a sword reaches a man’s spine it runs slow, unless the man that plunged it is uncommonly strong.’

‘Then James Josselin is uncommonly strong,’ said Withypoll.

Dowling grunted. ‘Who was here at the time?’

Withypoll smiled. ‘The Duke of York? Prince Rupert? The Duchess of Portsmouth?’

‘All of them?’

‘I don’t know.’ Withypoll drifted out towards the gallery, suddenly bored. ‘Nor will I enquire. We’re here because Arlington told me to bring you here. He wanted you to see the scene of the killing so you might set about your task with fire in your bellies. He didn’t give you permission to interview the King’s court. Berkshire is dead and Josselin is the murderer.’

We stood at the heart of the King’s domain, not fifty paces from the King’s own quarters, his bedchamber, bathroom and laboratory. We loitered like flies that tiptoed across the sticky strands of some intricate web without being snared. Were we wise, we should count our fortune fast, afore spreading our tiny wings and seeking safe passage before the spider arrived.

‘I would like to see his corpse,’ said Dowling.

Withypoll laughed. ‘Berkshire’s body lies in state. You think his family will tolerate your intrusions? A butcher and a …’ He stared at me with black eyes.

I ran my fingers across the woven coat of arms at the head of the chair, bloodied, ruined. Pomp, majesty and circumstance, all signifying nothing. Few cared who killed Berkshire, I realised, only that someone be executed for the deed.

Withypoll removed his beaver hat and rubbed his fingers through damp yellow hair. He bent over and picked up Josselin’s sword. ‘You have seen the blood; you have seen the weapon. Even you dull fools must see what happened here.’ He replaced the sword in the cupboard. ‘Now we leave. I will not waste any more time on you two.’

He clicked his fingers and waved his arm, bidding us to trot out the door like King Spaniels.

We followed him back along the Stone Gallery out towards Pebble Court, past a long file of stiff, silent statues contorted in classical pose upon the matted floor. Behind the doors upon our left resided the King’s most favourite courtiers, each enjoying a view out onto the Privy Garden. Strange the King allowed himself to be so constantly the subject of others’ attentions. He held regular court in his bedroom, supposedly.

‘Hurry up, Lytle.’ Withypoll waited at the top of the new stone staircase. ‘Afore someone wonders why I roam the palace with tradesmen.’ He bustled us downstairs and out into the summer air.

‘So, then.’ He faced us, drawing himself straight and imperious, for the benefit of those others wandering the courtyard. ‘You have witnessed the scene of Berkshire’s execution and are suitably impressed.’

‘I want to talk to Josselin’s wife,’ said Dowling.

Withypoll frowned. ‘He doesn’t have a wife.’

‘Edward Josselin’s wife, I mean.’

Withypoll blinked. ‘How many times do I need to remind you that you have one sole purpose in this affair, and that is to fetch James Josselin out of Shyam?’ He placed the fur hat back upon his head and twisted it slowly until content with the balance. ‘Meet me at Bishopsgate, at six tomorrow morning,’ he snapped, afore casting upon me one last poisonous stare. Then he was gone, long strides carrying him across the face of the Banqueting House back to King Street.

‘I don’t know why he looks at me like that,’ I said, most offended. ‘It was you provoked him.’

Dowling watched Withypoll disappear. ‘Arlington put him in a black mood, not I. He didn’t want to bring us here at all.’