4 A Plague of Angels

by P. F. Chisholm

  Edmund Carey’s house was a tall narrow building looking out over the old monastery courtyard, a wilderness of pigpens, chicken coops, overgrown herb beds, a jakes, a choked pond and a dead walnut tree, with a long wall of rubble along one side, out of which poked occasional pillars still decorated with fragments of tracery, like stone trees. Carey gestured at it while they waited for someone to answer the door.

  ‘You see that? Used to be full of beggars living in the cloister carrells before the roof collapsed a couple of years ago. Now it would take about a month to fill the pond, cut down the walnut tree, tidy up the courtyard and repave it, after which the houses round about would be worth twice what they are now. If you cleared the rubble from the cloisters and built some houses on the site, you’d make even more.’

  Dodd nodded, not all that interested. The door was opened by a pretty blonde woman with a velvet cap and little frown lines marking the smooth brow between her eyes. Her face lit up when she saw Carey.

  ‘Robin!’ she shouted and flung her arms around her brother-in-law. ‘Oh Robin, you’re back. Kate, Eddie, come out and see your uncle back from the wild north. Oh Robin, Robin. I don’t know where he is. I haven’t heard from him for weeks. Have you seen him? He didn’t follow you to Berwick, did he?’

  Carey shook his head and disentangled her arms. ‘Susannah, my dear, that’s why I’m back in London. Father wants me to find the silly bastard.’

  ‘Don’t swear.’

  ‘Sorry. Hello, Kate, hello, Eddie.’

  Two children threw themselves into Carey’s arms squealing, demanding presents and asking was it true that Scotsmen had tails. He told them gravely that he rather thought it was, seeing how big their padded breeches were, and introduced Dodd.

  The house had two rooms on the ground floor, one a parlour and the other a kitchen where a grim looking woman was trying to relight the fire. Kate was sent out to get some proper beer, since Susannah was quite sure their Uncle Robin didn’t like mild ale, bread and meat from the cookshop on the corner if it was open yet and if not come straight back, don’t talk to any naughty street children, and when would Kate learn to comb her hair before she put her cap on, for goodness’ sake, and why wasn’t Eddie properly dressed and ready for school, did he think his clothes would magically climb on his back by themselves? No, and where was his hornbook, this was the third he’d lost in two weeks and she could not afford to keep buying them, he’d just have to share someone else’s and if the schoolmaster beat him, then perhaps he’d take better care of his belongings in future…?

  Carey and Dodd retired from the shouting to sit in the parlour where the benches were carved but padded with old cushions and the hangings clearly came from Lord Hunsdon’s house because they were too big for the walls. Eventually Kate came trotting in, red-faced, carrying a jug of beer and two pewter mugs, while Eddie sprinted out of the door with his mother yelling at him that if he lost another cap, he could go bareheaded and catch lungfever and serve him right.

  Finally she came into the parlour carrying her own mug, sat down and smiled wanly at them while Carey poured her some beer.

  ‘The children think their father’s in the Netherlands again,’ she said. ‘I know he’s silly, but I wish he’d come back. I do worry so much…’

  Carey fished in the pocket of one of his padded sleeves and produced a purse full of money which he handed to her.

  ‘From Father.’

  The frownlines, that had no business on such a pretty face, tightened further. ‘Oh no, I shouldn’t, really; Edmund gets so cross when I take more money from my lord Hunsdon. He’s really too generous.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Carey easily. ‘Doesn’t want his grandchildren to lack for anything, no matter how cretinous their father. What was he up to the last time you saw him?’

  Susannah Carey leaned forward, put her elbows on the worn velvet of her kirtle and caged her fingers round her nose and mouth.

  ‘He was…He was full of plans, full of optimism, quite sure he would sort out our finances once and for all.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘Yes. I know. He wouldn’t tell me what the secret was.’

  ‘Reselling brocades?’

  ‘No, he’s learnt his lesson on that one, though he still notionally owes Ingram Frizer a lot of money.’

  ‘Let the little turd sue.’

  Susannah shook her head, clearly fighting tears. ‘Obviously, I was worried when he was so pleased with himself. But he wouldn’t tell me and…and…I lost my temper. We had a big fight and he stormed out saying he’d be back when he had hundreds of pounds and then he’d…he’d take the children away and…and…’

  Silently Carey handed over his handkerchief, and stared at the ceiling for a bit. After a while he patted his sister-in-law’s shoulder and said, ‘There, there.’

  Eventually the sniffling stopped and Susannah blew her nose.

  ‘What was the secret, Susannah?’

  She rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘I think it might have been alchemy,’ she said tragically.

  Carey barked with laughter. ‘Oh, bloody hell. I suppose it’s one thing he hasn’t tried.’

  ‘You see he was talking about how he needed seed-gold.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘He sold the last of his rings and my pearls that I had from the Queen when we married, and off he went. He was buying a gold plate off a sailor, he said, before we started fighting, then that gold would be the seed and he’d harvest ten times as much gold from it.’

  ‘Let me guess. The alchemist took the seed-gold, started the reaction, some disaster happened and it didn’t work and Edmund needed more money to pay for more seed-gold. Yes?’

  Susannah shook her head. ‘Well, no. He did come back, drunk, one night in early August and he showed me a big purse full of gold angels. He said he’d bred ten gold angels for each angel of gold he started with. He was very happy, said we’d soon be out of hock, we made up our quarrel and off he went again. That was the last time I saw him.’

  Carey rubbed his chin slowly. ‘It worked?’

  ‘I was surprised myself. I never heard of alchemy working before.’

  ‘Nor me. Did he let slip any names?’ Susannah shook her head. ‘Well, can I go upstairs and have a look round, see if he left any bits of paper or anything else?’

  Susannah gestured at the stairs and finished her beer. Carey went up the stairs and jerked his head for Dodd to follow him.

  The main bedchamber was on the next floor, overlooking the courtyard, smelling musty and much used. The enormous fourposter bed hadn’t been made yet and the two clothes chests were open and higgledy piggledy. Carey looked around.

  ‘Poor Susannah. She never was any good as a housekeeper, any more than Edmund has ever been worth a farthing as a provider.’

  ‘Why do they not live wi’ yer father?’

  Carey shrugged. ‘Edmund doesn’t get on with Father at all, mainly because Father keeps trying to stop him drinking and gambling and Edmund resents it. They had a really bad fight in May after the Frizer business when Father had to pay the man off, and after the surgeon had reset Edmund’s nose, he said he’d rather die in gaol than speak to Father again. All very stupid. Now then, let’s have a look here.’

  Carey pawed through Susannah’s clothes and then did the same with the other chest which was rather more full of fashionable men’s clothes, rich black velvet sprinkled with pearls, pale creamy satin. When the chest was empty he thumped the bottom of it in case there were any secret compartments. Dodd narrowed his eyes.

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. How odd.’

  Little tiny beads of silver were clinging to the padded leather lining of the chest. Dodd prodded one with his finger and it bounced back, rolled down a seam and joined another bead like two raindrops on a windowpane. Carey tore off a little piece of paper from the small notebook he kept in a pouch in his belt, chased and caught a couple of the little beads, then twisted the paper cl
osed and put it in the pouch.

  There was nothing else in the room except for a couple of books of sermons, an empty jewel box and some dirty pewter plates which Dodd brought down with them.

  Susannah had a bit more colour in her cheeks from the beer.

  ‘Did you find anything.’

  Carey shook his head. ‘I’ll ask Father to send a woman and a boy to you until Edmund turns up again. When he does you can send the boy to tell us. By the way, did you…er…did you check the gaols?’

  Susannah nodded vigorously. ‘Of course I did, it was the first thing I thought of. I went to all of them, the Clink, the Fleet, all of them, but nobody had heard of him. Oh, it’s so worrying. What if he’s dead?’

  She was dry-washing her hands helplessly, her mouth wrung sideways with anxiety. ‘What shall I do if he’s dead?’

  Carey put his arm across her shoulders and kissed her forehead. ‘Darling, you know my father won’t let you and the children starve. At least if my idiot brother is dead, you’ll be able to find someone better to marry, won’t you?’

  ‘But I don’t want anybody better, I want Edmund.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why, he’s never treated you properly.’

  ‘Well, you know, he is a bit silly with drinking and card-playing and money-making schemes, but he’s a very good man, he’s a good father, he’s never beaten me once, not even when I’ve called him names, he…he…He’s not so bad, really.’

  ‘He doesn’t deserve you,’ said Carey firmly, kissing her again. ‘Never has. Now dry your eyes. If the fool isn’t at the bottom of the Thames, I’m going to find him. All right?’

  Susannah nodded anxiously, blinking up at Carey.

  Dodd felt dispirited as Carey bade goodbye to Kate and tipped her sixpence. If folk as rich as the Careys could have money troubles, what hope was there for him?

  ***

  ‘Where now?’ asked Dodd as they stood in Blackfriars’ courtyard.

  ‘We’re finding Robert Greene,’ said Carey as he struck off eastwards along St Peter and Thames Street. Carey tried Greene’s lodgings first, over a cobbler’s shop, but found a locked door at the top of the narrow ill-smelling stairs and nothing else. Barnabus and Simon were waiting dutifully outside as they’d been ordered to earlier that morning.

  Carey went out into the smoke-dimmed sunlight and rubbed his gloved hands. Over the next two hours they quartered London for Robert Greene and it turned out that knowing the places where the poet liked to drink didn’t narrow the field very much since there were so many of them.

  After a while Barnabus got restless and asked if he could go off to St Paul’s with Simon to see if he could find a new master. Carey told him sharply he could wait until they’d found Greene, and Barnabus lapsed into a sulk.

  ‘If he could just wait a month or two, I could guarantee him a place with George Clifford, who’d employ him like a shot,’ Carey said to Dodd.

  ‘Don’t want to risk no more northern wastelands,’ muttered Barnabus.

  ‘Clifford?’ asked Dodd, not surprised that Barnabus had no appreciation for decent places. ‘Is that any relation of the Earl of Cumberland, sir?’

  ‘No, it is the Earl of Cumberland.’

  Every so often Carey would do or say something that completely took the wind out of Dodd’s chest. ‘The Earl, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Old friend of mine, we ran off from Court in 1588 to serve against the Armada, which we did on the old Elizabeth Bonaventure. He saved my life when I managed to catch gaol-fever that nearly did for me.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Very embarrassing, you know. I’d risked the Queen’s dis-pleasure in the hopes of killing me a few Spaniards and getting enough loot to pay off the moneylenders. We certainly fought the Spaniards but it was all done with cannonfire and scurrying the ships around the big galleons and of course the fireships at Calais, so I never saw a penny of any treasure. Somewhere around Flamborough Head I lost ten shillings playing dice with the Ship’s Master and the Surgeon, got a blinding headache and then went completely off my head with the fever. Apparently I spotted some likely looking cattle and a chest of gold in the crow’s nest—you know, the look-out place on the top of the mast—climbed up the rigging in a storm and had a damned good battle with some sails. George was the one who led the sailors up to get me and knocked me out cold so they could bring me down. The Spanish ships had turned tail by then and were well on their way to Scotland, so as soon as the ship docked at Tilbury, he strapped me to a litter and sent me back to Philadelphia and Lady Widdrington in Westminster. Nice chap. Very good friend.’

  ‘Ay, sir.’ Dodd was unwillingly fascinated.

  ‘He was the one said I should take up Scrope’s offer, said I’d enjoy myself in Carlisle and he was absolutely right.’

  Unwillingly, Dodd warmed to the Earl. He wasn’t quite sure how much back rent he owed the Cumberland estate for some of the land he ran cattle on, but he was certain he couldn’t pay it. He supposed it wasn’t the Earl of Cumberland’s fault. Maybe if Carey was his friend, he could put a good word in some time.

  He looked around. The aggravating man had disappeared again. Dodd blinked at a tiny hovel with brightly painted red lattices and followed Carey inside.

  There was no doubt that London was a drinking man’s heaven. From the big coaching inns, with their great yards where the carriers’ wagons were hitched ready for their long journeys to strange places like Bristol or Exeter, to tiny sheds where widows sold the ale and mead they brewed themselves, it was clear a man need never be thirsty in London. Provided he had money. Even river water cost a penny a quart if you bought it off a water-seller and was as brown as the beer and much less pleasant tasting.

  Dodd stuck with beer. Carey’s guts at last seemed to have settled down and his were fine, but he didn’t want to spend another week sitting on the jakes with his bowels exploding and everyone knew it was diluting your humours with too much water that gave it to you.

  At last, as the morning drew on, Carey went into yet another tiny boozing ken, peered around in the choking fumes of tobacco smoke, and cried, ‘Ahah!’ He shoved his way over to the corner where a man built like a beer barrel was propped up on a bench, mouth open and snoring, his hat drawn down over his eyes and a beard exactly the colour of carrots rising and falling with his snores.

  Carey sat down next to him and grinned happily, just like a sleuthdog next to his quarry. Dodd put his hands on his hips.

  ‘That’s him,’ he said.

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Carey. ‘Nobody else in London has a beard exactly that shade.’

  ‘I should ’ope not,’ said Barnabus, bustling back from the woman next to the barrels with a large jug of ale and some greasy horn cups. ‘Let’s celebrate. Oh, she says his slate’s up to ten shillings and if we want ’im, we’ve got to pay it.’

  Carey shook his head in admiration. ‘How the devil did you manage to drink five pounds in two weeks and have a slate?’ he asked the snoring poet, who didn’t answer and probably couldn’t have explained anyway. Dodd thought he looked exactly the way anyone would after drinking five pounds in two weeks, which was to say, unhealthy, red-nosed, stertorous but happy.

  ‘Could we not wake him up, sir?’ Dodd asked as he sipped cautiously at the brown liquid in his cup. Carey had finished his.

  ‘We could,’ he said. ‘Possibly.’

  Dodd thought that would probably be a good idea, seeing as the man looked as if he weighed at least sixteen stone.

  In the end they lurched out of the ken with one of the poet’s arms over Carey’s shoulder and one over Dodd’s and his legs making occasional stabs at finding the floor.

  ‘Why in God’s name did yer dad use a drunk to find your brother?’

  ‘You set a drunk to find a drunk,’ said Carey with some edge in his voice. ‘I expect that’s what he was thinking. Also he doesn’t know Greene as well as I do.’

  ‘How d’ye know a poet, sir?’

  ‘I know a lot of
poets. Good company.’

  ‘Yarrargh warra gerk…’ said the poet, and puked over Dodd’s boots.

  They dropped him while he got it over with and Dodd found some grass growing out of a yard wall and used it to wipe the worst off. Barnabus cleaned up Greene’s jerkin as best he could, they slung his arms over their shoulders again and set off once more.

  ‘Where are we going with him sir?’ Dodd puffed, trying to breathe sideways so as not to catch anything from Greene’s breath.

  ‘Down to the river.’

  ‘Mrrrghh…’

  ‘Och, Christ.’

  It took two further sessions of unspeakable noises and effort from Greene before they emerged onto one of the little boatlandings that studded Thames bank. Carey set Greene down on the planks with his back against the riverwall, took his hat off and mopped his face. He looked critically at his black velvet suit but had miraculously managed to avoid any spattering. Not for the first time, Dodd wondered how he did it and borrowed Barnabus’s handkerchief to have a scrub at his best clothes.

  ‘Robert Greene,’ roared Carey in the man’s ear. ‘If you don’t wake up, I’m going to dunk you in the river.’

  ‘Horrrargh…grr,’ said Greene, sliding down comfortably and starting to snore. Carey shook his shoulder and one large paw swiped his hand away. ‘Fuck off,’ said Greene quite distinctly, before settling back into snores.

  Carey’s lips tightened at this defiance. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘You can’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  One fist in the scruff of Greene’s doublet, he hauled the drunk over to the edge of the boatlanding, where the Thames water at high tide flowed as dark as beer. Dodd helped him and then Carey judiciously ducked the poet’s head into the water.

  ‘I suppose if it don’t kill him, it might wake him,’ Barnabus commented thoughtfully.

  Dodd watched Greene flailing in Carey’s grip. ‘Ye could let him breathe, sir,’ he said after a moment.

  Carey lifted Greene’s head, listened to his whooping and gasping, then dunked him again.

  There was nothing wrong with Carey’s hands now, Dodd thought, as he watched the poet start to fight. Carey let him up again.