A Plague of Sinners

by Paul Lawrence

  ‘Very well,’ the watcher exclaimed, crestfallen. He poked his head through the doorway and looked left and right, like he expected to be leapt upon. The bearer watched him tread cautiously across the threshold, shaking his head. The stairs creaked as they made their way upstairs.

  ‘Where we taking her?’ the bearer called as they carried the corpse out.

  ‘To All Hallows church,’ Ruth replied.

  ‘All Hallows?’ the watcher demanded, curious. ‘Why so, All Hallows?’

  ‘The man that owns this house said All Hallows,’ Ruth replied. ‘Said he is paying her costs.’

  ‘When did you talk to the man that owns this house?’ The watcher stood still while the bearer struggled to hold the weight.

  Ruth raised her chin. ‘Alderman Fuller told me yesterday, when I was appointed.’

  The watcher’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Kindly move your feet,’ the bearer urged him. ‘Afore I drop this lady upon the floor.’

  The watcher did as he was bid, expression betraying his live suspicion. Ruth closed the door as soon as they stepped out onto the street and emitted a curse I had not heard from a woman before.

  She glared at me as though she would slap my face. ‘What now do I tell Alderman Fuller?’

  ‘Should he ask, tell him I knocked upon the window while the watcher was asleep. Tell him you did not wish to get the watcher into trouble.’ I contemplated. ‘Indeed you might tell the watcher that yourself afore he leaves so he doesn’t raise the affair with Alderman Fuller at all.’

  ‘Yes.’ She relaxed. ‘A good lie.’ She scowled again. ‘How now will you get out? The watcher is wide awake.’

  I looked to the sky. No sign of dawn. ‘At five o’clock you call to the watcher, tell him your tale, tell him you would not see him lose his job. Then tell him you need cold water immediately.’

  The nurse stared. ‘You are a devious fellow.’

  Which I took as commendation.

  I returned to my chair and took what more sleep I could afore the sun crept up again.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  OF A CAPTIVE OR SLAVE

  Behold the hour at what time the captive is taken in, and if the Lord of the hour be an infortune, it signifies long imprisonment; but if he be a fortune, it signifies short imprisonment or captivity.

  Dowling had not been home since yesterday afternoon. The mask and cloak lay where I discarded them, the house was closed and musty. I made my way east towards the Guildhall, though it would not yet be open.

  Wharton and his four accomplices were all now dead. Could it be that the killing now was over? Perhaps Forman and Withypoll would leave now, back to wherever they came. My gut told me I was optimistic.

  I shivered and looked over my shoulder in time to see a dark shape slither into the shadow of St Mary-le-Bow. I increased my pace and glanced again. Sure enough, black and lithe, sliding down the side of the street like a snake. I started to run. A figure stepped out into plain view. Long, flowing cloak and legs like twigs. It was the lunatic, Franklin.

  I screamed like a woman and ran as fast as I could down Cheapside, swollen knee forgotten. He pursued, cloak flowing behind, fast, like an animal.

  I passed the turn to the Guildhall. No purpose in being ripped to pieces in front of a locked gate. The Tower! The Tower was full of soldiers. I veered right down Walbrook, almost slipping in a pile of something slimy and wet. I punched my arms in the air as hard as I could, straining each short leg as far as it would stretch. I felt a stabbing pain in my side, but paid it no heed. I glanced again over my shoulder to see the lunatic not twenty steps behind.

  I pivoted left into Cannon Street. By the time I reached the crossroads with Fish Street Hill he closed again. I thought of diving left or right into an alley, in search of some dark cranny where he would never find me, yet good sense told me it would be a mistake. I raced past Mincing Lane. I heard his steps as loud as my own. On to Great Tower Street, fifty yards to go. He screamed, furious. He realised my intentions! Past Barking Church and out onto Tower Hill, the Bulwark Gate in sight. Two sentries stood staring at the sky, watching the sunrise. I cried out and they raised their pikes slowly.

  ‘Wait!’ one called, jumping into a crouch.

  I peeked over my shoulder again. No one there.

  ‘Godamercy!’ I panted, slowing down, guts threatening to spill out of my throat. I bent over, hands on knees, lungs searing. I peered back into the red light. No one. He must have stopped at the end of Tower Street.

  The guard aimed the pike at my shoulder. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Harry Lytle,’ I gasped. ‘I was being chased by an escaped lunatic.’

  I managed to stand straight, felt the sweat beneath my armpits, upon my chest, groin and the insides of my legs. My bowel churned and threatened to erupt.

  The guard took a step closer, pike still raised. ‘An escaped lunatic?’

  ‘Aye.’ I crouched again, nursing a sharp pain in my stomach.

  I heard footsteps.

  ‘Good morning,’ said a low voice, one I hadn’t heard before. I gazed up into the face of the lunatic.

  Gone was the vacant stare, the naked hunger. The hair about his eyes was growing back, and his brown eyes gazed at me from within a calm face, studied and composed.

  ‘This is him.’ I stepped back, falling over my feet. ‘This is the man who chased me. He is escaped from Bedlam.’

  Franklin’s lip curled into an amused smile. He shrugged and spread his palms wide, laughing as if sharing a joke with the two bemused sentries. He had changed his clothes and trimmed his hair. ‘My name is Edmund Franklin. I am a physician and this is my patient. I have come to take him back to Bedlam.’

  ‘They know you lie, Franklin.’ I scrambled to my feet. ‘I used to work here, they recognise me.’

  Franklin put his hands behind his back. ‘I think not.’

  The sentries watched, faces creased in bewilderment. Then one turned to point his pike at my chest. As soon as he moved, Franklin drew a blade from behind his back, long and thin, and with three quick motions stabbed the first sentry through the neck, parried the lunge of the second, and stabbed him through the throat. One lay still, blood gushing from his neck in a short arc, while the other twitched his legs, before he too sprawled motionless.

  Franklin stared a moment, then clicked his tongue. He turned to me, unblinking. ‘I just wanted to talk to you, Harry.’

  ‘Edmund Franklin is a lunatic who hasn’t spoke a word in twenty years,’ I managed to speak. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I think you guessed that already.’ He bowed. ‘Thomas Wharton, first Earl of St Albans.’

  The two dead men lay upon their sides as if listening to our conversation. He hadn’t needed to kill them. ‘Lately of Bedlam,’ I said.

  ‘Safe refuge, I thought,’ he replied. ‘For the short time I required it. You found me though, and Chelwood shows more interest than I predicted. So now I have more work to do.’

  I peered at his bare chest, visible beneath his unbuttoned shirt. Were those freckles? ‘Chelwood left you exposed.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Wharton rolled up his sleeves. Though it was warm, his skin seemed to burn, fiery red, covered in a sheet of sweat. A familiar sense of dread declared itself at the base of my stomach.

  ‘Arlington would have moved quicker were it not for the plague.’ He spoke as if in pain. ‘I counted on his distraction. I did not count on Chelwood’s diligence. He betrayed me.’

  ‘You used the hiatus to vanish,’ I said, watching him return the sword to his belt. ‘You staged your death, then set about killing your colleagues while they wondered from where the blows were struck.’

  Wharton winced, breathing hard. ‘Had I left them to live they would have pursued me.’ He coughed. ‘They know me too well.’ The brown eyes spoke of an iron will, a terrifying ruthlessness.

  ‘They thought they were your friends.’

  Franklin stared blankly. ‘Friends?’

  I
recognised those freckles for what they were. ‘You have the plague.’

  ‘Aye, so I do,’ he acknowledged. ‘Which is none of your business. As I said, I have more work to do and so do you. You will meet me at Leadenhall at midnight.’ Pain scored creases about the corners of his mouth. ‘You and Dowling. Not before, not after. You will tell none other.’

  He was going to let me go? A surge of hope and fear coursed through me. ‘Very well.’

  He laughed, as though he read my mind. ‘Let me tell you my new secret, Harry Lytle. You will not like it.’ The pain disappeared from his eyes and he smiled. ‘I have seized Liz Willis.’

  ‘No!’ I groaned.

  Franklin grinned. ‘Oliver’s daughter, of whom you are most fond.’ He watched me carefully, savouring the pain he saw in my ravaged soul. ‘Though no harm need come to her. Just meet me tonight. Else I shall introduce her to my daughter.’

  A picture of his deformed child came to mind. ‘You don’t have a daughter.’

  ‘Yes I do, for I am a scavenger, and my daughter is the scavenger’s daughter. You have heard of the scavenger’s daughter?’ I heard the laughter in his tone.

  Indeed. A simple apparatus. A collar for the neck, loops for wrists and ankles. When a man turned the screws, the ankles were drawn closer and closer to the head, squeezing the victim’s knees tighter and tighter to his chest. Once the muscles of his leg were stretched to their limit then they tore, ligaments and tendons pulled tight until they snapped. They say the blood was forced from a man’s fingertips. The chest cavity would be squeezed so hard it became impossible to breathe and the victim died.

  ‘Why so worried, Lytle?’ he asked. ‘Do you not trust me?’ Then he laughed again, a manic cackle to signal the dawning of the new day. ‘Leadenhall at twelve,’ he said, then turned and strode back towards the City.

  The dawn sky burnt red as a devil returned to Hell. I left the two bodies where they lay and hurried after him.

  Though it was not yet six o’clock, Willis’ door stood ajar. I pushed it open and entered the house. Willis himself strode the hallway, fully clothed.

  ‘Lytle,’ he exclaimed. He blinked, unfocussed, as if he had been up all night. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Where is Liz?’ I demanded.

  ‘She is missing.’ He marched towards me and seized my shirt in his fists. ‘What do you know of it?’ His hands shook.

  Edward appeared from the kitchen, wide-eyed. A maidservant stood upon the stairs, waiting for me to speak.

  ‘I would prefer we talk alone.’

  He pulled back his hands and nodded sharply. ‘Come with me, if you please.’ He turned on one well-built heel and led me to his study, where last we met he banished me. ‘May I give you something to eat or drink?’ he asked, to my surprise.

  I shook my head. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She went out last night to visit a friend and didn’t come back.’ Willis perched on the end of a low, leather-bound chair. ‘When she didn’t return I sent Edward to fetch her back, but they said she left hours before. They live on Mark Lane. It is two minutes away.’

  I saw the lines on his forehead, sensed the turmoil inside his head. He blamed himself. Had he left London when he could, Liz would not have been taken. I knew the feeling. Jane, Liz, Burke, the two guards, all would still be alive and well had I not insisted on assuming this idiot assignment.

  His head jerked up. ‘You know who took her.’

  ‘I think so.’ I nodded. ‘But I will not tell you.’

  He leapt to his feet and went for my throat, but I pushed him away. ‘I want to find her as much as you do,’ I assured him. ‘But if I tell you who has her, you will endanger her life. You will have to trust me.’

  ‘Trust you?’ he choked.

  ‘Aye, trust me. I will have her back before tomorrow morning.’

  He levelled a finger at my nose. ‘Tell me who has her.’

  ‘No.’

  He shook his fists in the air and hissed at me through clenched jaws, trembling. ‘It is not your decision to make.’

  I headed to the door. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Sit down,’ he bellowed.

  ‘My house is affected by plague, Mr Willis, so you will not find me there. You may leave message for me at the Guildhall.’

  With that I left him to his misery, having an abundance of mine own.

  The only places I could think to search for her were Bedlam and the Clink. Wharton could hardly hide her at Bedlam, and Judkins would be watching the Clink with gimlet eye.

  I needed Dowling.

  My heart bid me run through the streets without stopping, check if he returned home, interrogate the rector at Christ Church and the other churchwardens. Yet my head stopped me. Wherever Dowling was, he knew Forman and Withypoll were searching. The only place I could think he would go was the Guildhall. Yet was that not an obvious destination besides? If Forman and Withypoll wanted to catch me, that is where they might go, and whatever happened, I couldn’t miss my appointment with Wharton at the Leadenhall. I had been careless so far. Now I had to employ self-restraint. It was only six of the morning – I had time to prepare.

  St Lawrence Jewry was a fair parish church, once a favourite haunt of Sir Thomas More. Within its walls stood thirty-six monuments to various individuals, including two of Anne Boleyn’s ancestors. All very interesting, but not today. Today it would serve as my watchpost. I reached the church through empty streets, confident none could follow without my spotting them. At the church I waited for the bell-ringer, who allowed me to climb the tower upon close inspection of the King’s seal. I told him I watched for Catholic agitators.

  From the tower I had clear view of the approach to the Guildhall, New King Street down to Cheapside. The ringing of bells vibrated inside my ears, but wasn’t painful. I perched high enough that none would think to look up, yet close enough to the ground I could make out clothes and discern base features. I settled myself comfortably to watch.

  The beaver hat and swaggering gaits betrayed them. Forman and Withypoll arrived before eight o’clock, along Catte Street, from the direction of Newgate. They strode purposefully towards the south gate, and through it. My heart beat as hard as the clappers in the bells as I awaited their return. Or would they leave through the north gate, so I would miss them?

  Thirty minutes later they emerged again, alone and walking fast. At that moment I was sure they had him. Dowling wasn’t the sort to hide himself away in hidey-holes. He went about his business with an unshakeable trust in God. At the moment I played that role, watching down from my little heaven. Forman and Withypoll turned west again, back down Catte Street, and I ran downstairs, determined to follow.

  By the time I reached the street they were gone, but I hurried down Ladd Lane in time to see them disappear into Maiden Lane, towards St John Zachary. Sure enough they headed directly towards Dowling’s house, which meant I could follow from afar. Ne’ertheless it was all I could do to stop the trembling in my arms and legs, for they chose a path through narrow streets, where curious eyes watched me pick my way across the damp morning cobbles, dancing to avoid the splashes of yet another chamber pot. I couldn’t be sure that none spied on Forman and Withypoll’s behalf, prepared to dash forwards to advise them of my pursuit.

  They pushed open Dowling’s door as if they knew he wasn’t home, and stayed inside. Waiting for me, I assumed. I lingered upon the street a short time, conspicuous in my silks, afore slipping into the shop of a fellow I recognised, a butcher friend of Dowling. There I sat, staring at Dowling’s house, not daring to take my eyes off the door.

  Three hours later they had still not re-emerged. The sun climbed to its loftiest vantage point, drenching us all in a bath of sticky wetness. In the shop at least we enjoyed a light breeze through the open windows. Dowling’s house baked like an oven with door closed. I wondered how long they would last.

  On the stroke of midday they appeared, wiping their faces and picking their clothes from their
skin. Withypoll carried his beaver hat in one hand, the first time I saw his naked head. He stood with hands on hips afore kicking angrily at the ground. Forman carried his jacket on his arm and appeared no less ill-tempered. They headed south and I followed.

  St Paul’s was quieter these days, the printing presses silent and shops closed. I cursed as they entered the churchyard, for here I was exposed. If they were to stop and turn they would recognise me. I maintained enough distance to allow for escape, yet I feared losing my chance to find Dowling. They walked fast though, with no sign of stopping.

  They led me onto Creed Lane, towards the King’s Wardrobe, where they pushed through the front door, barely acknowledging the guards.

  ‘Boggins!’ I cursed and stamped my foot. The King no longer kept his robes at the Wardrobe, for he had room sufficient at Whitehall and Hampton Court. Now it was home to the King’s secret service, so it was rumoured, housing confidential documents and other covert objects. It was guarded day and night, and not by the drunks that protected most state buildings.

  It took me nearly ten minutes to devise a scheme for entering.

  The short walk along Thames Street took me past warehouses and store sheds, through the fumes emanating from the scores of little factories, soap boilers and brewers.

  ‘Boddington!’ I called out, throwing open the door to St James Garlickhythe. ‘Where are you, you pompous windbag?’

  Loud footsteps tapped a rapid beat from deep within the church, heralding the appearance of the astonished cleric. He thrust his arms out straight at his side and bellowed at me. ‘How dare you!’

  ‘How dare you, I say.’ I stepped forward and tapped my finger upon his ample stomach. ‘Here cometh I, in all good faith, in service of the King, and you spread malicious inventions as to the content of our conversation to William Perkins.’