A Plague of Sinners

by Paul Lawrence

  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, f
or 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, ob
livious 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.