A Plague of Sinners

by Paul Lawrence

  I shook my head, appalled. ‘So still you beat the sin away like the dust out of a carpet?’

  ‘It is how we help them be rid of the evil within,’ Morrison assured me. ‘The physician comes in and purges them all once a week, the astrologers make them all amulets they may wear about their necks, and we are told to whip them.’

  I walked further on down the corridor, searching for the shine of metal against grey-white skins. ‘I don’t see amulets about their necks.’

  ‘They are lunatics, sir,’ said Morrison. ‘If we left the amulets about their necks then they would swallow them, else throttle themselves.’

  I lifted a handkerchief to my nose. The whole house stank of bile. ‘Morrison,’ I said with great deliberation. ‘We thank you for the tour thus far, but methinks we might proceed hastier.’

  He bowed. ‘As you say, sir.’

  So we walked down the narrow corridors, Morrison behind us rapping his stick against any body part that strayed beyond the bars. We saw men and women, the frantic, frozen and insensible, but none that might be recognised as the brother of an earl. When we reached the Abraham Ward, Morrison held out an arm inviting us to return from whence we’d come. A thin man approached me from behind and kept tapping me upon the shoulder. He reminded me of Newcourt.

  ‘Which of these might be related to nobility?’ I asked.

  An iron glint formed a grey sheen upon Morrison’s eyes.

  ‘There is one man here that is brother to the Earl of St Albans,’ I asserted.

  ‘What makes you think it?’

  ‘Lady Wharton told us it,’ I lied.

  Morrison rubbed his arm over his head and pulled a face. ‘There are two others living here,’ he said at last. ‘One might be the man you seek.’

  ‘One would be Daniel,’ Dowling guessed. Daniel was a giant, once Oliver Cromwell’s porter. Like Cromwell before he died, he nurtured an unreasonable obsession with God and all things godly. ‘He has his own library,’ Dowling told me as if I did not already know it.

  ‘Aye, he does,’ said Morrison, ‘and it is best to leave him in it, sirs, for he is a most devout prophet, and prophets loudly to all that will hear it. Not in the manner of a lunatic, but in a way that upsets the other lunatics.’

  A version of Dowling, I considered.

  ‘Who is the other?’ I demanded, impatient.

  ‘Edmund Franklin. Not so famous. Mr Gallagher, the steward here, will not have him with the other lunatics.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Morrison clasped his hands in front of his chest. ‘He is the most dangerous of all the lunatics. If aroused he makes a noise like the beasts.’

  ‘You keep him together with Daniel?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Mr Gallagher decreed it.’ Morrison nodded. ‘Daniel will not speak when in the presence of Franklin, and Franklin stares at Daniel, which keeps him quiet besides.’

  ‘And Edmund Franklin is related to nobility?’

  Morrison sucked in his breath between his teeth. ‘He may be. I have not been here long, so cannot be sure.’

  ‘Might Pateson tell us, or Gallagher?’ Dowling demanded.

  ‘Mr Pateson has not been here for a week or so, and Mr Gallagher is not here today.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Perhaps he is sickly,’ said Morrison.

  ‘Well then, let us see Franklin.’

  ‘There is little object in it.’ Morrison wrung his hands. ‘For he is a lunatic and talks to no man.’

  ‘Still, we would see him,’ I insisted.

  ‘I don’t take no man into Franklin’s cell,’ Morrison protested.

  ‘We are King’s men, Morrison, and will go where we please,’ I said.

  ‘You would see Edmund Franklin then,’ Morrison whispered, as if it were a great calamity. He turned and led us into the nave of the church, the windows of which were broken. The roof opened to the blue sky above.

  ‘Ye can discern the face of the sky and of the earth; but how is it that ye do not discern this time?’ Dowling shared one of his Bible quotations with us.

  Morrison stared at the butcher as he did the inmates. ‘It is just before twelve.’

  ‘He refers to the ungodliness of the age or some such thing,’ I explained. ‘He does it a lot.’

  Morrison nodded at Dowling, impressed. ‘As you say.’

  He bustled ahead on little legs. Heavy wooden doors bolted with metal staves barred the way ahead. ‘The sacristy is empty these days.’ Morrison withdrew his key. ‘Not so the chapter house. I am the only guard allowed access.’ He opened the door, deliberately slow. ‘You must wait here, while I check what humours flow within him. Wait a moment.’ He slipped inside the door and pushed it behind him, leaving it ajar.

  I heard words within, low and soft. Then Morrison emerged.

  ‘Did the physic purge these two?’ I asked.

  Morrison shook his meaty head. ‘The clerics don’t venture in here neither. The last man to beat Franklin left here more distracted than he, and none could make a mark on Daniel.’ His face was red and wetter than before. ‘You may go in, but only for a short time.’

  We ascended into Heaven. From a stinking gloomy dungeon, awash with urine and foul discharge, into this fresh space with clean straw upon the floor and a thick shaft of yellow light cutting through from a small, rectangular window high opposite our heads. Everything bathed in holy suffusion.

  Inside to the left stretched one wall of iron bars, to the right another. Inside the cell to our left sat a huge man upon a chair so vast it resembled a throne. He sat with his back to the other cell, facing the wall, staring ahead, body rigid. The books upon the shelves on the wall said this was Daniel. Franklin stood watching from behind the bars of his cell, looking like he had just feasted on something rich and bloody. It seemed we interrupted something.

  Morrison cleared his throat, nervous, daring to look upon Franklin for only a moment. ‘Franklin is to your right. You may stay a few minutes and knock upon the door when you are ready to depart.’ The door closed behind.

  I approached the cell bars, heart pounding. Dowling trod as graceful as a drunken drayman behind me. Franklin turned his back on us when we reached the cell door.

  ‘Good day, Mr Franklin.’ I could think of little else to say.

  The lunatic turned his head slowly, framed in a bright shard of the blessed light. I stared into the face of a demon. Big brown eyes stared out beneath a bony brow, no eyelids, eyelashes or eyebrows visible. His mouth hung open as if he waited to be fed. He cocked his head, a giant bird eyeing a worm.

  ‘You are the brother of Thomas Wharton?’ I asked.

  A line appeared on his brow and he crept closer. Greasy raven hair looped in long slick curves. He drew a long black cloak about his figure, beneath which protruded exceedingly thin white legs, naked, and covered with tiny red sores. He clutched at the bars with his fingers, then leant forwards and licked one, up and down. His eyes scanned every detail of my body, from my shoes to my hair, then lingered upon the area between my legs. He drew back his lips as if to bite. His teeth were deep yellow, crooked and cracked.

  ‘I don’t know if he talks,’ I whispered to Dowling.

  Franklin jumped, as if startled. His gaze flicked between us. Then he drew back his head, looked to the ceiling and screamed, a long piercing shrill, so loud it hurt my ears. He was immediately echoed by howls from within the asylum, a baying chorus of wails and shrieks.

  The door opened, and Morrison bustled in, twitchy and afraid. He watched Franklin as he breathed deep into his chest and drew a finger across the edge of his tongue, before turning and withdrawing into the gloomy depths of his cell.

  ‘Now you must go.’ Morrison pulled at my sleeve. ‘He will not talk, never has talked. I don’t know what you hope to gain by being here.’ His brow glistened wet and his lip speckled with beads of sweat. ‘You leave when he demands it, and he has demanded it.’

  We left the way we came, past the cells, the eyes, the shuf
fling, the misery and anger. I sensed an edge that was not there before. Morrison seemed keen for us to be gone as quick as he could walk us to the front door.

  ‘Will you be coming back?’ he asked as we emerged beneath the blessed sunshine.

  ‘I hope not, Mr Morrison.’ I contemplated the filthy yard. ‘You spoke lightly of the pest before. Do you truly have no dread of it?’

  He laughed quickly, eyes betraying his true fears. ‘There is much to be afraid of in the world, would ye not say?’

  ‘Aye.’ Dowling wrapped an arm about his shoulders and squeezed him hard. ‘Fear not though; for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is. Get ye to church and God will look after you.’

  Morrison wriggled free of Dowling’s clutches before bidding us a quick farewell. He pushed the door closed behind, leaving us to contemplate the filth ahead of us. Two rats, black and bristling, scurried about the wheels of the decrepit coach, long, scaly tails dragging in the dirt.

  So Wharton did indeed have a lunatic brother. How he fathered a child was a mystery to me, but not one I dwelt on for long. From the plague pit and asylum, the only sensible destination was back behind the city walls, protected from the sickness. But I had promised to look for James and the pesthouse was the most likely place.

  I walked with Dowling to Cripplegate at least and bid him farewell. He was keen to hurry away, with duties to perform for the parish.

  It was but a short walk across the stinking expanse of Moorfields, up Moorgate, to the Cripplegate Pesthouse and the pit next to it. The pesthouse was not a house at all, but a shabby congregation of long wooden sheds that stood here since the last great plague thirty years ago.

  A tall man strode out of the nearest shed with shirtsleeves flapping and a rich mane of dark hair bouncing above a long straight head. ‘What-ho!’ he called without stopping. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You are the physician?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  I hurried after him. ‘A man called James, a servant in the Willis household at Seething Lane. Did he arrive yesterday or today? I would see how he fares.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘Aye, of the Willis household.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he grimaced. ‘He had a fever when he came. Ye might find him over there.’ He stopped and pointed at the third shed back. ‘I will attend to him shortly.’ He waved a hand dismissively and walked away. I headed to the shed, though my legs did not will it.

  Smoke drifted gently out the open door, a thin black smoke forming a protective barrier against the dangers of the air without.

  I approached with caution. From outside I heard the sound of men groaning, peppered with occasional sharp shrieks of agony. Through the cloud of smoke I saw cots, ten of them, side by side with a narrow corridor along their feet, each one occupied. The walls and roof were made of planks, light shining through thin cracks in the wall, roof newly pitched. They said few died here, yet it was hard to credit. Fill a room with sick men; what prospect for recovery?

  I walked down the corridor as quiet as I could. Some didn’t move, most writhed in pain. Once more I felt the terror, that one of these men might sit up straight and stare at me, that the pest itself might pounce upon me and alight upon my breast with talons of thorn.

  None resembled James, though I found it difficult to recall what James looked like. ‘James?’ I called softly. Two men stirred and cast a bleary eye in my direction, provoking me to leave quick.

  I moved to the next shed, which was larger. A woman carried a pail of water, tending to all as if they were her own. Another woman lay motionless, black hair fallen in limp strands across her pale face. Her brown eyes were dull and cold, reminding me of a candle at the end of its wick. Upon her neck grew a large yellow growth, the bubo. I had not seen one so close. It lay like a giant leech, buried beneath her skin, blackness about its edges. Once ye had the bubo upon you then your only hope was to have it lanced. Yet mostly they lay too deep. I stepped back quickly, again unable to linger, and moved to the next shed, which is where I found James.

  I recognised him instantly. He lay bent, staring at the ceiling. Last time I saw him his face beamed alive and ruddy, hair spiked in all directions, eyes full of young courage and innocent of pain. Now he shivered, white as ice, eyes cloudy as an old man’s, hair matted in soaking plaits. Blood flecked his chin. Then he jerked and lay taut.

  He was but a boy. Why had I not stopped him when he first went to lay hands upon Hedges’ infected body? I cursed myself and willed him to recover.

  ‘James?’ I whispered, but he did not stir. As I watched, a fly landed upon his nose and walked up his nostril and out of sight. By the time it walked out again, still James had not moved.

  He was dead.

  Chapter Six

  TO WHAT PART OF THE WORLD, OR OF THIS KINGDOM, HE MIGHT BEST APPLY HIMSELF TO LIVE IN

  Because the moon applied so strongly to the trine aspect of Jupiter, and that he and Venus were in Taurus, and the sign signifies Ireland; I advised him that Ireland would well agree with his constitution.

  I ambled back into the City, cursing the twitchy nose that led me into such perilous predicaments. Why could I not be a sensible man? This was not a time to be wandering the streets looking for murderers, not while the sickness lay upon the City like a deathly cloud. I had little fear of pestilence when I was able to choose my passage through the streets, to walk only where the plague had not visited. But in only two days I had already ridden through St Giles, toured Bedlam and searched a pesthouse. If the plague was indeed carried by sticky atoms, then my clothes were covered in them. Though this green suit was silk, quite new and very expensive, it would have to go, linen shirt and drawers besides.

  I returned home, relieved to find Jane out. I disrobed carefully, using only my fingertips to touch the fabric. Then I threw it all in the fireplace and set fire to it. I imagined the sticky atoms writhing in agony and prayed none escaped. I dressed anew and hurried downstairs to find a pipe and tobacco. Tobacco was supposed to be the best protection against plague. Any remaining atoms I would smoke off.

  I sat in my chair, in my front room, where usually I found both relaxation and solace. Not today. It was best this investigation be settled early, and Burke seemed to be prime suspect. We would track him down that afternoon, I resolved. Track him down, confront him, arrest him and leave London.

  The front door crashed open.

  ‘You have a visitor,’ Jane appeared in the doorway. ‘This is Owen Price and he is an astrologer.’

  A short man with serious eyes entered the room. He wore the furry robe and thick felt hat that all astrologers wore. His face glowed red and glistened sticky wet, like he had just been born. He held up a large bag. ‘I am told you are struggling to make an important decision?’

  ‘I am?’ I replied.

  ‘He is,’ Jane answered. ‘I will talk to you after.’ She stepped outside and slammed the door closed.

  Price watched the door for a moment as if he feared it might open again quickly. ‘Your maidservant tells me you seek guidance as to whether you should leave London or stay.’ He pulled the table from the wall and opened his bag. ‘Is that true?’ he asked, eyes evasive.

  I scratched my prickly scalp, annoyed. So Jane wanted the astrologer to persuade me to leave. I would have to play this intelligently. ‘I had not thought to seek guidance from the stars,’ I answered carefully.

  From the bag he extracted a great bound book, a tarnished golden item resembling a skeleton of the earth bound in a woman’s girdle, and a pointed stick. He laid them all upon a red velvet cloth, then pulled up a chair and bid me sit opposite. ‘You appear to be wealthy,’ he waved a hand about the room. ‘Why would you stay?’

  The hairs prickled on the back of my neck, for I suspected he mocked me. Much though I loved my little room, I would not call it splendid. The wainscotting was ancient and chipped, with little holes in it. I owned but two threadbare tapestries, both handed down to me by my parents. The t
apestries had not been washed in my lifetime and their suspiciously idyllic country-life scenes were practically invisible. What business was it of his anyway?

  ‘Why would I not stay?’ I replied. ‘It is the parishes outside the wall that are worst affected. It has spread even as far as St Albans already. Inside the wall we are safer.’

  ‘The plague breached the wall weeks ago,’ Price pointed out.

  ‘Aye, but it hasn’t spread,’ I argued. ‘And if you believe it to be unsafe, then why do you linger?’ I knew the answer full well. A blazing star passed over London last December, and then again in March, a slow-moving dull object. The astrologers told us it foretold of a terrible judgement, a proclamation that served them well once the plague arrived. Now they all made fast fortunes. He stayed for the same reason I did – his own advancement.

  ‘In these difficult times people are forced to make decisions upon which their lives may depend.’ Price lifted his chin and spoke nobly. ‘I provide a useful service.’

  Just as I had justified my strategy to Liz Willis. It was like looking in a damp mirror. ‘Your chart says you will not be touched, I suppose.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  At least he believed in this art he peddled. As did many others, the King included. ‘Have you not been asked the question many times now? Could you not simply write us all a sign telling us to stay or to leave?’

  His eyes widened in sweaty surprise. ‘You have not been read to before?’

  I shook my head wearily. ‘Though now you’ll tell me it depends upon the hour at which the question is asked. What I cannot fathom is how your reading depends on the hour when the plague itself is constant.’

  ‘The answer is simple.’ Price’s nose twitched like a rabbit. ‘You may ask only once. You may indeed discover a different answer each time you ask the question, but only the first answer is true.’

  ‘Is now then a good time to ask?’

  ‘Were I to work out my readings aforehand then the readings would have no value,’ Price explained. ‘That is the rule.’