A Plague of Sinners

by Paul Lawrence

  Cummins stepped backwards into his colleagues, creating a corridor through which we gratefully passed. His smile vanished when two apprentices attempted to follow. He punched one in the stomach, the other fled.

  Behind the front door George Monck watched down upon us with fierce intent from within a thick, gold frame, silver armour draped in blue velvet. In the background a naval scene, the return of Charles to England, I supposed. It was Monck who financed Charles to return to England in 1660, then famously held audience at this very tavern, drinking sack and doing his business.

  I knew The Bull Head well, knew what a maze it was for the drunk and disoriented. The door to the left stood ajar. Four men sat about a round table playing at cards, mugs afront of them, legs laid out loose.

  ‘What cheer?’ I pronounced.

  ‘All is cheerful,’ replied one of them, face screwed up in concentration. ‘So long as you don’t drink the wine.’

  The other three laughed as if it was the funniest joke in London. They all stank like they hadn’t washed for a year, the acrid odour tempered by the thick cloud of tobacco smoke.

  ‘Have you not drunk enough?’ Dowling declared, disgusted.

  ‘We can’t get out,’ protested one, laying a card upside down. ‘They are all out there shouting of the evils of drink.’ He belched.

  ‘Where is Benson?’ I asked. The landlord and lessee.

  The man jerked a thumb then played a card. ‘Back there with the barrel.’ He shivered and shook his hands.

  We left them to it and made our way deeper into the building through a passage bright with candles. More paintings of Monck, some of Charles II, lots of ships and battle scenes. We emerged into the main room where Monck had held court all those years ago. Long tables stretched the length of the room, mostly empty. Three men stood about a giant cask of wine in the corner.

  ‘Benson,’ I called out. ‘What’s the story?’

  A tall fellow with grey hair turned calm brown eyes upon me. ‘Good day to you, Harry Lytle.’

  ‘This is David Dowling.’ I pointed at Dowling again. It felt strange dragging the pious butcher round taverns.

  Benson stepped forth to shake Dowling’s hand before standing back to fold his arms. ‘Haven’t had the barrel but two days. Tap stopped flowing this morning so I stuck a hook up the tap and poked it against something solid. Took the lid off and found the body.’

  The top of the cask had been opened with an axe. A mop of black hair broke the surface and a pair of man’s knees. The body was pushed in tight with thighs up against its chest; a big body. Dowling reached down and lifted the head up straight. Large nose, thick brow and heavy, square jaw.

  Dowling peered into the half-open eyes. ‘Recognise him?’

  ‘No,’ I answered, feeling sick. I looked to Benson.

  Benson shrugged. ‘None of us know who he is.’

  ‘You hadn’t opened the cask before?’ I asked.

  Benson shook his head. ‘Only just delivered. Must have come with him inside it.’

  ‘Time to get him out of it.’ Dowling rolled up his sleeves. ‘What are your names?’ he asked Benson’s men.

  ‘Cuttinge,’ said one.

  ‘Sadler,’ said the other.

  ‘One arm each, gentlemen, and I will take his legs,’ Dowling instructed, eyeing my fine jacket. ‘Mr Lytle here is squeamish.’

  The three of them took off their poor jackets and shirts.

  ‘Lift him by the arms, fellows.’ Dowling pushed them forwards. They stared into the wine, reluctantly. ‘There is no art to it,’ Dowling urged, impatiently.

  Cuttinge sighed and Sadler stuck out his bottom lip afore both bowed down and touched the corpse upon the shoulders.

  ‘He is slippery,’ Cuttinge complained.

  ‘Get a grip on him,’ Dowling growled.

  They leant down, grasped the body gingerly, and attempted to lever him up straight.

  Dowling peered up from beneath his grey brow, patience waning. ‘You need to pull harder.’

  ‘He’s big,’ Cuttinge gasped, tugging.

  Dowling walked about briskly and helped Sadler get a grip upon the man’s wet skin. ‘Stand him up and I’ll lift him by the legs.’

  The three of them heaved the body up high, grunting loud. Sadler grappled it about the chest and attempted to drive backwards with his feet, but slipped over and hit the ground hard. The body slid back into the vat of wine until Dowling seized it by the underarms. Sadler beat his fist upon the floor and cursed out loud, then leapt to his feet in foul temper. This time they organised themselves more effectively and succeeded in working the body free and easing it to the floor.

  ‘God save our souls,’ Benson said, solemn. The huge figure lay upon its back like a great hairy baby, legs akimbo, belly round and distended, mouth hanging loose. His skin gleamed and the black hair all about his body lay in long bedraggled mats. I could not help but regard his long, thin yard, trailing proudly to the floor.

  Dowling knelt and rubbed his hands gently upon the man’s bulging stomach. ‘Hard as a drum,’ he pronounced, curious.

  ‘The dead bloat, do they not?’ said Benson.

  ‘Not like this.’ Dowling prodded hard with one finger. ‘His belly is full, stretched unnatural.’ He pushed down with both palms. ‘I reckon he be full of wine.’

  ‘Oddfish,’ I reckoned.

  Dowling stuck a finger betwixt the man’s wet jaws, then scratched his head and returned to the barrel. ‘No man could drink this much. Someone forced him to drink.’ He searched for a cup and dipped it in the cask before holding it up to the light. ‘Vomit.’

  ‘Best not tell the customers,’ said Benson.

  Sadler moaned and stuck out his tongue. Cuttinge put a hand upon his own stomach and paled. Beads of sweat erupted from his temples.

  ‘He was alive when they dropped him in the barrel.’ Dowling placed the cup upon a tabletop. ‘Yet I don’t understand why there be not more vomit in the wine, for with that much fluid in his stomach, he could not help but discharge it.’ He rubbed a finger upon the body’s lips. ‘You can see foam about his mouth, but not much of it.’

  He pulled the man’s lip down with his fingers. Something caught his eye and he peered deeper into the mouth. ‘There is bruising here.’ He pushed two fingers down the man’s throat and ran his fingers up and down.

  ‘Perhaps he was a fat man,’ Benson suggested. ‘Most fat men’s bellies are hard.’

  ‘No.’ Dowling struggled to his feet and scratched his head, perplexed. He stared at the offending gut as though he wished to burst it.

  Benson nudged me in the ribs. ‘When can you take him away?’

  ‘Stand aside,’ Dowling muttered. He stepped up so his feet touched the torso, then turned round so his heels were against the ribcage. He crouched and leant back with his right hand to hold the body’s face flat against the floor, then launched himself upon the swollen stomach with all his weight. He looked over his shoulder to see what effect he had, then bounced again as hard as he could. He kept bouncing, grunting with the exertion.

  ‘Have ye known him long, Harry?’ Benson whispered.

  ‘Aye,’ I nodded. ‘He doesn’t frequent taverns. What are you doing, Davy?’

  ‘Wait.’ He turned about, placed one palm upon the other, both upon the corpse’s belly, and pushed as hard as he could. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed triumphantly, as a flood of wine and gastric juices gushed from the corpse’s mouth. He reached down into the vile stream and extracted a long smooth cylinder, a thick cork. ‘Whoever killed him filled him with wine, then pushed this down his throat. He died of suffocation.’

  Benson watched the contaminated wine flow across his floor and sighed.

  ‘Where did you get this barrel from?’ I asked.

  ‘Same as always,’ Benson said. ‘Henry Burke.’

  Chapter Nine

  IF A SERVANT SHALL GET FREE FROM HIS MASTER?

  If he demand – shall I be freed from the service or slavery of this
man my master, in which I now live? – then see if the Lord of the ascendant be cadent from an angle.

  We arrived at Burke’s house before sunrise. Yet even as we arrived he clambered into a smart blue coach, which quickly departed, trundling across the empty cobbles, too fast for us to follow. ‘Boggins!’ I cursed.

  I ran across the street and knocked upon the door. The servant who answered glowered furiously from beneath perspiring brow. ‘I have an appointment with Henry Burke,’ I lied.

  ‘He’s gone,’ snapped the servant.

  I feigned puzzlement. ‘How peculiar. He was quite specific he wished to meet at six. He sought my advice on financial matters.’

  The servant relaxed like I was the King himself, ready to cure all with a touch of his finger. The floor behind was dusty and unswept. A faded tapestry hung choking behind thick layers of dirt. ‘Financial matters, you say? Are you his banker?’

  ‘Aye, his banker,’ I agreed. ‘But he is gone, you say?’

  The servant scowled. ‘He won’t be back for a week or more. Says he’ll pay us when he returns.’

  ‘A week or more?’ I pursed my lips. ‘Very well. Ask him to write upon his return and perhaps we might arrange another meeting. In September, perhaps.’

  ‘Are you sure you are not supposed to meet him at the Guildhall?’ The servant nudged me out onto the street. ‘He said he is meeting someone there.’

  ‘Ah!’ I raised both brows. ‘Of course.’

  The servant shooed me away. ‘Go then. Hurry!’

  I walked as fast as I could, conscious the servant stood watching me. Dowling caught me up once we reached the quiet splendour of Cornhill.

  ‘To the Guildhall,’ I urged him, breaking into a trot.

  Our steps echoed loud upon the empty cobbles, all hawkers and criers now banned by the Plague Orders. A cat disappeared down an alley, a rare sight since the Guildhall ordered them killed. A pale face stared out of a window, then quickly withdrew.

  New King Street led into the heart of the Guildhall, the wide courtyard surrounded on all sides by the palatial magnificence of the hall itself. The street ploughed straight through the middle of the yard, up to the black mouth of the main entrance. Usually this courtyard was full of people, for the Guildhall stood at the heart of the City, but at this hour and in these times, it was deserted, save for three men stood together in the middle of the vast cobbled square. One was Burke. We stopped on Lothbury to spy from afar.

  Burke stood with two big bags at his feet, talking to the same two men he met the night before. The fair-haired man took one bag, then led him back towards where we hid. We withdrew into the early morn shadow and watched them pass by. The dark-haired man walked behind, strolling slowly, and we gave them long leash.

  On Cheapside they stopped at the Tun, once a lock-up and now a cistern. Burke’s attendants leant languid against the battlements, facing east, while Burke stood with arms folded, fidgeting and staring south. They waited a while before the fair fellow led Burke away again, leaving the older man behind.

  ‘You think he waits for others?’ I whispered.

  ‘No,’ Dowling growled. ‘Methinks they are cautious.’

  He pulled me by the sleeve down the narrowest of filthy alleys, floor awash with thick streams of feculence, onto Ironmonger Lane, and through the grounds of the Mercers’ Hall. We emerged onto Cheapside in time to see Burke and the younger man turn down Bucklersbury, a narrow street winding south and east. We scuttled after them, sticking to the shadows of the black eaves.

  I cast a glance west to see if the other noticed us, but he had gone. We hurried down Walbrook, sticking to the shadows. They dashed across the crossroads with Cannon Street, not once looking back. Again I glanced behind as we hastened after them, afraid the other followed us. A wolf ahead and a wolf behind. Not a pleasant prospect. Dowling grabbed me by the coat and dragged me this time into the mouth of Tun Wheel Lane. Burke and partner disappeared out of sight towards Thames Street.

  I wrenched at his hand. ‘We will lose them!’

  ‘Wait,’ he urged. Sure enough, the older man slipped out of the entrance to Elbow Lane, swarthy-faced and watchful. I held my breath as he scanned north and south before heading after the other two.

  ‘How did you know?’ I whispered, hoarse.

  ‘I felt it,’ Dowling answered. ‘They are sly. Now we keep going.’ He crept out back onto Dowgate Hill and set off again.

  The older man turned right onto Thames Street, back towards the Vintners’ Hall, then left to the river.

  Three Crane Lane was grim and dark, even in the early morning sunshine. The houses on one side stretched over the alley leaning against the houses from the other, shutting out all light from above. The air hung rank and foul, a steaming brown cloud. Insects swarmed about my head, an army of bloated overfed flies, guarded at their flanks by an assortment of other insects – biting, stinging and cutting. Large black rats sat brazenly in the open, chewing upon the rotten debris that coated the alley floor in a thick layer of slippery slime. I could barely discern the outline of the man we followed. He steadied himself with hands against both walls as he made his way down the slope. Then he vanished into a doorway halfway down.

  We waited at the top of the passage to see what transpired. Soon we heard faint chattering and saw two black shadows form amidst the murk. Burke’s two guardians trod gingerly up the incline, heads lowered, arms out to their sides, balancing. We dropped back to the corner of Sopar Lane, from where we saw them brush down their fine clothes and smack their hands together afore heading west.

  We tarried a while, cautious they might return, afore venturing downwards. I feared I might fall with every step, it was so slippery. We slithered down the hill as if skating on ice.

  The house loomed tall and narrow, a decrepit stack of timber leaning forward into the alley as though it would keel over and die. Small, rotten windows framed black glass, never cleaned. The front door stood propped open by an ankle-deep pile of shit and filth.

  I stepped over the heap of rubbish into the room beyond, a cramped space five paces square. The stink pervaded my nostrils like soup and lingered on the back of my tongue. I wanted to choke. I heard sounds of rustling, moving, faint squealing in the inky blackness.

  There was a staircase in the corner. A sharp screech sounded close to my foot as I trod on something. The boards of the stair appeared bent and twisted. I eased my weight gently down upon the first step. It creaked loud, serving as a trumpet to announce our presence. I cursed and withdrew my foot.

  ‘It is quiet up there,’ I whispered.

  ‘Aye, and dark.’ Dowling nudged me forwards. ‘He must be at the top of the house.’

  The second step took my weight without complaint. Yet every other step squeaked or squealed, especially beneath Dowling’s ponderous weight. By the time we reached the top of the stairs my skin prickled from head to toe, anticipating an attack at any moment from whoever waited above.

  As my eyes accustomed to the gloom, I made out a mattress on the floor, thin and uneven, straw poking out of numerous small holes that peppered it like a long cheese. The smell was foul, wet and putrid.

  By my reckoning there was but one set of steps left to climb. I peered up the stairway, discerning light at last. Still no sound, just the noise of my pounding heart and the low hiss of Dowling’s laboured breathing. There seemed little to be gained by attempting to walk quietly, so I leapt up the stairs two at a time and jumped out into the space above.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ an angry voice barked. Burke glared, his glistening face burning fiery red.

  ‘We followed you,’ I replied truthfully.

  Shards of light shone through tiny holes in the roof, onto the bent back of an artist sat hunched over a canvas clamped to an easel. He worked quickly, squirrel-hair brushes dancing in swirls of thick paint. ‘You should not have come,’ the artist said, without turning round.

  Burke’s two bags lay upon a cot in the cor
ner of the room, beneath his jacket and coat. Next to the cot stood a small table with jug and a plate.

  ‘Is this where you plan to stay the next few weeks?’ I asked, incredulous. The air was stale and putrescent, the walls damp. Mould grew upon the rafters, green and grey.

  Burke squeezed his knees together and clenched his fists. ‘Who are you? How dare you follow me!’

  The artist turned. ‘They are agents of Lord Arlington. Harry Lytle and David Dowling.’ He looked to me with bright, intelligent eyes, shining out from a dirty face that had not been shaved for a week or more. ‘Is it not so?’

  The breath stuck in my lungs. How did he know?

  Burke sneered, pebble eyes hid beneath a long dark brow. ‘Spies then?’

  ‘Investigators,’ Dowling snarled. ‘You are the one skulking about London afraid to show your face.’

  Burke straightened his jacket and lifted his chin. ‘You said your name was Baker,’ he said to me. ‘You tried to get me to tell you things at The Mermaid last night.’ He strode to where the artist still painted. ‘I told him nothing, of course.’

  ‘You told me a lord guaranteed your transaction with Wharton,’ I reminded him.

  ‘I did not tell you which lord though, did I?’ He watched the artist, eyes wide and fearful. ‘Tell him!’

  The artist kept on painting. What was happening here? Burke did not present as a man with the wit or resolve to commit the murders we witnessed. He seemed scared of the painter, had seemed intimidated by the two men that fetched him here. ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘You would not tell me that, nor would you tell Lord Arlington.’

  ‘So you persecute me then, hound me. It is your doing I find myself in this poor hovel.’ He put a hand to his nose and regarded the walls like they would close in and bury him.

  ‘Hardly our doing,’ Dowling snorted. ‘Two men are dead. Wharton at the Vintners’ Hall, as you clearly know, and another at The Bull Head, pulled from a vat of wine supplied by you.’