Death and the Arrow

by Chris Priestley

  Tom stared at him and then looked away toward the end of the alley. His hands relaxed.

  “I swear, Tom,” said Will. “I never took your watch. I ain’t no liar.” Will smiled a crooked smile. “Well, not at this particular moment anyways.”

  Tom laughed. Will held out his hand and Tom shook it.

  “Come on,” said Will. “Let’s get out of this stinking alley.”

  “I suppose your mother is dead?” said Tom, remembering Will’s oath.

  “As a hangman’s heart,” replied Will.

  “Mine too,” said Tom.

  Will stopped and slapped Tom in the chest with the back of his hand. “Then ain’t we like brothers in a way?”

  “Yes,” said Tom. “I suppose we are.”

  And so, in a way, they had been since that day.

  They were an odd couple, but well matched in many ways. Each had a ready wit and a quick temper and both, as young boys, had lost their mothers, which left them with a sadness and an unspoken yearning for something more than they had.

  Physically they were very different, though, with Tom black-haired and stocky, and Will blond and skinny as a whippet. Unlike Tom’s, Will’s clothes were shabby and often much too big for him, emphasizing his slight frame. And he was always in need of a wash that never seemed to come.

  Tom talked about his father and the print shop and Dr. Harker. Will loved to hear of the doctor’s travels, for just like Tom, he had yet to travel five miles from the house in which he was born. For his part, Will gave a watered-down account of his life as a member of London’s army of pickpockets and petty thieves.

  “As it happens,” said Will, suddenly remembering their conversation, “I don’t need your poxy watch, Tom, for I have a rather splendid one of my own. Now, let me see—what is the time?” With a theatrical flourish, he produced a beautiful gold watch and chain—the very same watch the Cheapside wig-maker had searched for in vain earlier that day.

  “Will! For God’s sake! Put it away!”

  “All right, calm down, Tom,” Will replied, hiding the watch inside his coat. “Don’t have a seizure! There’s no one to see us in this fog. Don’t get so flustered.”

  “Don’t get so flustered? You could swing for that— and me along with you for not speaking up!”

  “No one’s going to swing, Tom, though it’s good to hear you won’t be peaching on me. . . .”

  “It’s not funny, Will. You’ll be picking the hangman’s pocket one day.”

  “Well, you’re in a cheery mood today,” said Will a little crossly. “You know what I am—what I does. Don’t come the parson with me, Tom.”

  They both looked down at the ground in front of them and waited for the other to speak. As usual in these situations, it was Will who broke the silence.

  “Well, as it happens, Master Marlowe, I happen to have gone and got meself a job.”

  “You?” gasped Tom.

  “Yes, me, you cheeky rogue,” said Will, sounding a little hurt.

  “Sorry, Will. That’s great news, really it is. I was just a little, well, surprised, is all.”

  “Yeah, well. I got feelings too, Tom. Lots of ’em.”

  “I know, Will, honest I do. Tell me about it. What is the work exactly?”

  “Well,” said Will, puffing himself up a little, “I happen to be in the employ of a certain gent I know who has paid me to perform certain very delicate duties.”

  “Hmm,” said Tom, raising an eyebrow. “It is honest work, isn’t it, Will?”

  Will grinned broadly and slapped Tom on the chest with the back of his hand. “Listen to you. You are such a worrier, Tom. But I can’t talk about it, not even to you. Sworn to secrecy and all that.”

  “Will . . .”

  “I’ve got to go, Tom. We’ll talk later.” And with that Will set off toward the City.

  “Will!” called Tom. “Is it honest?”

  Will had all but melted into the fog and was a vague and pale sketch when he turned to call back to Tom. “You could say it’s the opposite of what I normally do!” Then he turned and, with a little hacking laugh, disappeared like a ghost at dawn.

  Tom was trying to make some kind of sense of what Will had said when a breeze blew in from the Thames and cleared a patch of fog, allowing the houses on the other side of the street to come briefly into view.

  Within an instant, the fog had closed back in, but in that instant Tom could have sworn he saw someone running along the roof ridge of one of the buildings. He waited to see if the fog would shift again, but it seemed set. Tom shook his head. Maybe he was starting to imagine things.

  SURGEONS’ HALL

  A few days later, Tom’s father gave him a parcel to deliver to Dr. Harker. As Tom was leaving, his father called out to him without looking up from his work, “And I’d be obliged if you went straight there and came straight back.”

  “Father?” said Tom.

  “You were seen, Tom. Talking to that—that article.” Mr. Marlowe banged his fist on a pile of paper, sending the top five sheets to the floor. “Why must you go against me, Tom? What is a fine lad like you doing with someone of that sort?”

  Tom could think of nothing to say that he had not said before, and so he remained silent, knowing that nothing angered his father more.

  “Blast it, Tom! I’m glad your mother’s not alive to see what company you keep!” Mr. Marlowe regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but it was too late. Tom stood for a moment, frozen by the force of rage and hurt, and then turned and made for the street.

  Tom walked briskly, his eyes stinging with unshed tears, until he reached Dr. Harker’s house, which was in a small courtyard off Fleet Street. He climbed the three stone steps up to the deep-green door and rapped the brass knocker. A maidservant let him in and showed him into the study.

  “Ah, Tom!” said Dr. Harker, looking up from a huge leather-bound book. “Good to see you! Come and sit yourself down. May I?” Tom handed him the parcel of printed pamphlets.

  Dr. Harker picked up the Arabian dagger he always used to open parcels, cut through the string, and, as usual, jabbed his thumb. “Bother and beeswax!” He searched for a handkerchief and knocked a candlestick to the floor. “Oh, never mind, never mind,” he said, sucking his thumb and eagerly tearing off the wrapping paper with his other hand. “Excellent! Wonderful! Your father is an artist, Tom, a veritable Michelangelo.”

  Tom smiled halfheartedly. Dr. Harker could see that something was wrong, but knew his young friend well enough not to approach the matter head-on. If Tom wanted to talk, he would. If not, the Inquisition and all its racks and thumbscrews would not be able to make him. “Tell me,” said the doctor, pointing to the pamphlet, “have you read it?”

  “Of course, Doctor,” said Tom. He always read Dr. Harker’s pamphlets.

  “And what do you think?”

  “Well, I don’t claim to understand it all, but there’s going to be an eclipse, isn’t there?” said Tom, brightening now, eager for the distraction.

  “There is indeed. A solar eclipse. And if the sky clears for long enough, we’ll see it. Right here in London, Tom. Imagine it: the shadow of the moon passing over the city.”

  Tom tried to imagine it but could not. He had looked at the diagram on Dr. Harker’s pamphlet but he could not see how night and day could be so weirdly intermingled. It seemed impossible.

  “It will be an unforgettable event, Tom. If the weather is kind to us, it will be stupendous.”

  “They say it’s an evil omen, don’t they, Dr. Harker? The eclipse, I mean,” said Tom.

  “Nonsense, lad! Utter nonsense! There is nothing supernatural here, Tom. It is all absolutely natural. Is the swinging of a pendulum an evil omen . . . or the movement of the hands on a clock face? All we are seeing is the workings of the universe, the movements of its marvelous machine!

  “Sometimes I despair of this great city of ours, Tom. England is home to men of incomparable reasoning, lad. Men like Halley and Wre
n—not to mention Newton, of course. Giants among men, Tom; giants among men.” Dr. Harker’s face was beginning to flush and, as he grew more excited, his arms began to wave wildly.

  “And yet,” he cried, banging the flat of his hand down on the desk and making a pot of ink jump half an inch in the air, “and yet we are also home to a coven of the most scandalously dishonest charlatans and rogues imaginable. One cannot walk the streets of this town without tripping over astrologers and diviners, so-called wise women and cunning men. Conning men, more like!” Again he banged the table; again the inkpot jumped.

  “If a gentleman has his sword stolen, what does he do? He pays some crafty cunning man to try and divine, by magic, where his property is gone to and who may have taken it. By magic! Is this the eighteenth century or the fourteenth?”

  “The eighteenth,” said Tom helpfully.

  Dr. Harker smiled, feeling a little foolish at his outburst. He was also hot under his periwig and he eased it off, putting it carefully on its mahogany stand. Then he scratched the bristles on his shaven head and put on his crimson silk turban.

  “But what choice does the gentleman have in any event, Tom? To go to the likes of that scoundrel and so-called thief-taker, Hitchin.” Dr. Harker looked across at Tom and smiled. “Of course, you and he have met, have you not? How is young Will Piggot?”

  “He’s well enough, thank you, Doctor,” said Tom. “Though my father would see him transported if it were up to him.”

  “Come now, Tom. Your father only has your interests at heart. Will leads a dangerous life. Your father does not want you touched by that danger, that is all.”

  “But I want something more than ink and paper,” said Tom. “You can understand that, can’t you, sir?”

  Dr. Harker nodded. “I can, Tom,” he said. “You want adventure, lad. I was just the same at your age. But I understand your father too. You know that he loves you dearly, don’t you, lad?”

  Tom looked away. The two of them sat in silence awhile until the doctor spoke again. “Have I ever told you about my voyage to Constantinople, Tom?” He had, but Tom was more than happy to hear it again, and in no time Dr. Harker was off.

  As always, the doctor leaped from one subject to another, happy to talk while he had such an attentive listener. One moment he was telling Tom about the minarets of Constantinople; the next he was showing him rock from the slopes of some far-off volcano, then a pair of shoes from the Americas, made of hide and decorated with tiny beads. Every now and then he would stretch across to pull down a book from his vast library, pointing to pictures of places Tom could only dream about.

  Suddenly Dr. Harker broke off from what he was saying and looked at his pocket watch. “What am I thinking of? Come, Tom. We’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”

  “Late?” said Tom, chasing after the doctor. “Late for what?”

  “For our appointment, of course! You’ve heard there’s been another murder?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Tom. He had heard the newspaper-sellers calling out the news as he walked from the print shop. “Another Death and the Arrow murder. . . .”

  “Exactly!” said Dr. Harker. “And that’s why I’ve arranged this little meeting.”

  “What meeting?” said Tom, struggling to keep up with the doctor, who had already put his wig back on and was descending the stairs.

  “With Dr. Cornelius,” he said, opening the front door and marching out into the street.

  “Who is Dr. Cornelius, sir?” asked Tom.

  “Probably the finest surgeon in the land.”

  Tom stopped in his tracks. “A s-s-surgeon?” he stammered.

  Dr. Harker laughed. “Come now, Tom. Surely a clever lad like you isn’t frightened of a medical man?”

  “I didn’t say I was frightened,” said Tom defensively. “I just don’t like them, that’s all.” He shared the popular revulsion for “anatomizers” and their habits. Dr. Harker laughed again.

  “They’re vultures,” Tom went on. “They rob graves—or at least they pay others to do it for them. They steal corpses and cut them up. And people pay to watch. It’s . . . it’s . . .” He shuddered, lost for words.

  “I don’t approve of theft, of course,” said the doctor, “but how else can they learn about the living? We need to look at the inner workings of the body.” Tom shuddered again. “The work they do now will one day save lives, Tom, I’m sure of it. You must keep an open mind on these things.”

  But Tom was not convinced. He wanted to be a man of reason like the doctor, but there was something about the idea of men cutting up the bodies of other men that made him shiver. It was an instinctive, animal dread.

  Dr. Harker smiled at Tom’s discomfort and gave up trying to convince him. They walked on in silence through Ludgate and turned onto Old Bailey. They could hear a trial going on in the courtyard outside the Sessions House. The crowd let out a groan, and a woman screamed, “No!”

  “Another poor soul has been sent to the gallows, by the sound of it,” said Dr. Harker. “Ah, here we are: Surgeons’ Hall.”

  Tom was just thinking how convenient it was that Surgeons’ Hall was so close to the court when he was taken aback to see what looked for all the world like a magpie in human form.

  “And there’s the very man we’ve come to see,” said Dr. Harker.

  A little way off, with his back toward them, stood a tall, thin man all in black; black, that is, apart from the powdered periwig that tumbled down over his shoulders and the skinny, white-stockinged legs showing between his breeches and his shiny black shoes. His pointed black tricorn hat gave the strangest illusion of a huge crow’s beak.

  “Dr. Cornelius!” shouted Dr. Harker.

  The man turned to look at them. His face was pale and gaunt, his piercing eyes so deep-set that the brows cast a deep shadow over them. Tom thought him the most sinister-looking person he had ever seen. If he had not been at Dr. Harker’s side, he would have spun on his heels and run.

  “Josiah,” said Dr. Cornelius. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

  “And you, Jonathan,” said Dr. Harker.

  The two men shook hands warmly and inquired after each other’s work and health. Tom stood nearby, feeling a little self-conscious.

  “Ah, Jonathan,” said Dr. Harker. “Come and meet my very good friend Tom Marlowe. His father owns the Lamb and Lion print shop.”

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Master Marlowe.” Tom shook the gloved hand that was held out to him and smiled reluctantly. Dr. Cornelius raised an eyebrow and grinned. “You do not have a high opinion of surgeons, I fear, Master Marlowe,” he said.

  “I don’t mean to give offense,” said Tom.

  Dr. Cornelius grinned again. “But all the same, I see you do not deny it.”

  “Well,” said Dr. Harker, interrupting diplomatically, “what have you got to show us, Jonathan?”

  “Follow me, gentlemen,” said Dr. Cornelius.

  He led them through the building to a set of huge double doors. These opened into a large room, lit by a skylight in the high ceiling. At one side of the room were wooden seats in curved rows and skeletons hung in niches set into the walls. Directly below the skylight was a large table, and on the table, under a stained white cloth, was a corpse.

  Dr. Cornelius raised the perforated grip of his cane to his nose and sniffed at the perfume within. The air was heavy with the smell of decay. A fly settled on Tom’s hand and he brushed it away with a shudder. He could not take his eyes from the corpse on the table.

  “I gather you examined the first victim of the Death and the Arrow murders, Jonathan?” said Dr. Harker.

  “That I did, Josiah,” replied Dr. Cornelius. “Until his mother claimed the body, that is. It was a fascinating case. You know the story?”

  “That he had supposedly already been killed by an arrow in the Americas?” said Dr. Harker. “Yes, it’s intriguing, is it not? Do you have anything to add to the story, Jonathan?”

  “Well, n
ot very much, I’m afraid. There was one interesting thing, though. The shaft of the arrow had been snapped off before the body came to me, but it was still clear from which direction the arrow had come. A very strange business. . . .”

  “I don’t understand,” said Dr. Harker.

  “The arrow came from above,” said Dr. Cornelius, pointing upward.

  “Extraordinary!” exclaimed Dr. Harker.

  “I have the second victim here, if you’d like to see,” said Dr. Cornelius.

  “Could I? I’d be fascinated.”

  “Our man was almost killed some time ago. He carries an old wound on his back, below his right shoulder. I cannot be sure, of course, but I would hazard a guess that it was made by a musket ball.”

  “A musket ball?” said Dr. Harker. “Then perhaps he was a soldier, like the first victim. This is very interesting.”

  Tom felt a bead of sweat trickle down his face. He had to concentrate to keep the doctors in focus as they pulled back the sheet.

  “Some fool has pulled the arrow out of this one, as you can see,” said Dr. Cornelius. “Look at the mess they’ve made. But it would be my guess that once again the arrow was fired from above. . . .”

  Tom fell to the floor.

  Tom came to on the steps outside Surgeons’ Hall.

  “You fainted, lad,” said Dr. Harker. Tom felt well enough to blush. “Good to see some color back in those cheeks,” the doctor continued with a smile. “Can you stand?”

  “I think so,” said Tom, rising shakily. “Did Dr. Cornelius tell you anything interesting?”

  “Yes, lad. Indeed he did.”

  Tom waited for Dr. Harker to continue, but he simply began to walk off in the direction of Fleet Street. “What did he tell you, Doctor?” asked Tom, trotting after him.

  “Many things, lad. For one thing, someone broke the arrow that shot our first victim and took away the flight. Odd, don’t you think?”

  The whole business seemed odd to Tom, and no part odder than the next, but he said, “Yes, Doctor, very odd,” all the same.