Fire & Faith

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘Aye – news flies up and down fast here. It’s a bad business, for all he was a sly creature. What can I get you?’ Sharp turned and strolled across the dirty floor, turning behind his bar. ‘Some ale? Small?’

  ‘Not so small, Mr Sharp. I’d like to have better cheer.’

  ‘I’ve a cask of good stuff, sir. I’ll fetch you it.’

  As Sharp drew the ale, Martin sat on a box. He looked around the room. The old curling brush, Sharp’s weapon against the rougher patrons, leant against the bar. The floor had been brushed. The hairs on Martin’s neck began to prickle. Sharp returned with the ale. ‘The baillies, Mr Sharp, have taken in old McKenzie, as was physician in the burgh of late. He had the dead man burn my maman’s home, and he has been involved in other dark practices.’ Martin sipped at his mug of ale. It was strong and bitter. It really was good stuff.

  ‘Is that so, sir? Did he kill Boyle?’

  ‘He claims he didn’t.’ There was something unsettling in the way Sharp was watching him. He cast his eyes down to his drink and waited.

  At that moment, the door opened once more, and Danforth stepped in. ‘Mr Martin,’ he announced, ‘I trust your talk with the girl went well?’

  ‘It didn’t, sir.’

  ‘Then I am very sorry. Perhaps we can discuss it later. You have paid for your drink?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Pray, my friend, allow me.’

  Danforth reached into his cloak and produced Boyle’s purse. He crossed to the bar and let the contents scatter. Sharp looked at him, the baby face twisting into confusion and then suspicion.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘False coins, sir, for a false creature. You might use them to purchase passage across the Styx, for I think your life shall soon be at an end, as you ended Madeleine Furay’s.’

  20

  ‘You heard me, Mr Sharp, and so you need no more feign friendship towards me or Mr Martin. You are no gentle tapster, no soft friend to the demons of this burgh, but in league with them.’

  ‘You might watch your tongue, Englishman. Soft or no, I’ve friends would slit your throat.’

  ‘Aye, and at your command.’

  The atmosphere inside Sharp’s ramshackle tavern had thickened with tension. Danforth felt himself tense, and he could sense his adversary was primed to move too. He must keep the man talking, make him confess. ‘You made a grievous error, Mr Sharp, though we should have had you eventually.’

  ‘Aye? And what was that?’

  ‘You killed Boyle.’ Sharp said nothing, but his face clouded. ‘You killed Boyle,’ repeated Danforth, ‘after the fellow threatened in your hearing to “tell all”, because he “knew all”. I suspect he did not, but the threat sealed his fate. I tell a lie, sir – you did not make but one error: you also left the man his purse of false coins.’

  ‘I made no false coins, you fool. They are none of mine.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Danforth, ‘when first we came into your tavern and were accosted by that cozening rogue, you grasped for his coins as though they were real. And on our second visit, the fellow attempted his jape again, mistaken in the belief that we were different gentlemen, in possession of a different horse.’

  ‘What …’ said Sharp, anger mingling with confusion, ‘has that to do with anything?’

  ‘I see it,’ put in Martin. ‘If Boyle came twice into this place, using the same hoary trick, then it must needs be with the agreement of the owner. You were part of his stratagem, Mr Sharp, of his coney-catching game! You feigned acceptance of his false coins, to maintain the illusion that he was a gentleman of means, of good credit and worthy of trust.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Danforth. ‘Yet I did not think much on it until I found the coins on the wretch’s body and could link them to this place. It is the only place we saw Boyle throw his money, and Sharp the only fellow we saw accept it, though neither of us realised it at the time. Until this morning, I did not know that Boyle was in possession of the false coins. That discovery alone might have made him seem to be Mistress Furay’s killer – it would have been he or McKenzie. Yet Boyle was slain, and the coins found in his purse, and here we have a third fellow in the base enterprise. McKenzie is no murderer. At least,’ he added, seeing Martin’s frown, ‘in that he does not seem the type to lower himself to do wicked deeds by his own hands, unless it be by accident. And so with Boyle dead, only Sharp was left. By killing Boyle for his silence, Mr Sharp, his body cried out for vengeance. And, in faith, he shall have it.’

  ‘You think so, sir?’ asked Sharp, a grim smile on his face. ‘Aye, you’re very clever. Much more so than that damned idiot Boyle. It was a poor trick he devised; he got nothing out of no man by it, save when he threatened violence upon them. Aye, I killed the whore. Little Madge Ferguson, as I used to visit next door.’ His voice had turned sing-song. ‘Thought she had climbed up from the muck, she did. She turned her pretty, lined face to greater men now. Burgesses, she would entertain, all the men of quality. Well, I finally got in to see her great lodgings.’

  ‘Every man knows every other man in the wynd,’ said Martin. ‘And every woman, even if she has escaped and changed her name.’

  ‘Aye,’ laughed Sharp. ‘Madeleine, wasn’t it? After the old queen? The daft whore. She was nothing. She deserved nothing. I looked at that great house she had cozened out of her husband and I would give her nothing. Such as her deserve nothing but false coins, as they are false creatures. A great lady? A bawd!’

  ‘And in anger you killed her?’

  ‘I was not angry. The old cat still had some fight in her when she refused my payment. “Payment before anything else”, said she – just as she was taught in her schoolhouse next door. She made to strike me when I gave her only brass. Well, no man strikes Anthony Sharp and lives, and so no woman neither. She shut up quick smart when I got atop her and crushed her out of this world.’

  ‘And so we have a confession,’ said Danforth. ‘You shall hang, Mr Sharp.’

  ‘For killing a whore, a wynd-rat in counterfeit clothing? No, English boy, I can’t be touched. Every man in the wynd is beholden unto me.’

  ‘You foolish creature,’ said Danforth, shaking his head. ‘If this rough place has become your kingdom, then you are a poor monarch. Did you not bear witness to your late neighbour, the former keeper of this royal burgh, King James? His Grace departed this earth, and now many strive to fill his shoes. It is a goodly time for them, sir. An opportunity.’

  Martin sensed what was coming before Danforth did. Sharp sprang from his heels, reaching for his curling brush with one hand and a dagger at his belt with the other. At the same time, he let out a piercing wail. Danforth threw himself backwards, tripping over a box and throwing an arm up and over his face. Martin lunged at Sharp, his hands scrabbling for the back of his cloak. The movement confused Sharp, who half-turned, dropping his dagger and raising the wooden brush above his head with both hands. His attacker slid backwards, losing his grip and landing hard. Sharp hovered over him, poised to bring the end down, lance-like on Martin’s face, when the door was flung open. Sharp looked up, giving Martin the chance to roll over and away.

  ‘We have you, Sharp,’ screamed Baillie Lyne. He skipped across the tavern, and Sharp turned to run, but was stopped by the bar. He threw the brush over it. As he attempted to make for the opening which led behind it, Lyne stabbed at his shoulder. Sharp screamed, hurling oaths and reaching for the wound. Martin, recovered, skittered across the floor like a spider and reached out, curling a hand around Sharp’s ankle and jerking his leg out from under him. He fell forward, and Lyne sat on his back. He replaced his dagger, and then ground Sharp’s face into the muddy floor.

  Danforth had stood, his heart still beating. He had known he would be little use if the man turned violent, but still he felt embarrassed about falling, about taking no active role in the little fracas. Not a natural fighter, he expected authorities to provide physical arms, whilst his strength lay in mental agility. He had asked
Baillie Lyne to return to the tavern with him and listen at the door whilst he listed his proofs and extracted a confession. By good fortune, someone had opened a window shutter. Lyne had heard everything.

  ‘I must have something to bind the fiend’s hands,’ said Lyne, sweat beading on his smooth forehead. ‘Jesu, but he bucks like a wild horse.’

  Danforth, pleased to feel useful, stepped behind the bar and into the private quarters of the inn. It was a hovel, with items thrown about the floor and atop assorted strongboxes. Casks lay around, many of them foul-smelling. Sharp must have lived in his own filth. One open box contained an assortment of weapons, perhaps for sale or perhaps Sharp’s own. He found some rope tied around one cask – the type which would form a barrel hitch. He jiggled it free and returned to Lyne, who bound the jerking Sharp’s wrists together tightly. He then yanked the man’s thatch of brown hair and twisted the remainder around his head, deftly gagging him.

  ‘Forrester shall like this, as shall the Provost,’ said Lyne. ‘This animal has been the very leader of the brutes of this burgh. With him dead, they shall all fall.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Danforth. ‘At least someone of faith and trust can now be installed in this place. Arnaud, are you well?’

  Martin had sat down on a box, and was leaning forward, his head between his legs. ‘Aye, mon ami. Yet I felt for but a moment that the man would kill me. To see death coming, if only for a second …’

  ‘As Madeline Furay must have seen it, at this man’s hands.’ Danforth’s mind turned again to the dead woman – the child-minded, foolish creature who had never been able to escape her past. The shadow man now had a face. The absurd, babyish face with its incongruous whiskers was the last thing she had seen bearing down on her. This man had killed the woman without care and without cause, and had led them on this ugly dance, and all whilst feigning friendship. Danforth felt no great satisfaction. With dismay, the thought struck him that he had almost hoped that the killer would be some greater man – even if it was the husband. Like a gossipy fishwife, he had half-wished that he might unmask the misdeeds of a trusted burgess, reveal some great scandal. He felt himself redden.

  ‘As John McKenzie shall see it straitly,’ said Martin. His torso swivelled up and he looked at Danforth. ‘For both will die, McKenzie and Sharp.’

  ‘That is the way of it,’ said Danforth. ‘They have brought about their own fates.’

  ‘A double hanging,’ said Lyne, cheerfully pulling Sharp up. The man kicked out at boxes. ‘That should draw a crowd. Yet the Provost shall not want them speaking, for they might know something that should … embarrass … certain gentlemen of the burgh. I shall suggest binding closed their mouths. Then the people of the burgh shall not be denied their entertainment.’ Danforth and Martin shuddered at the smiling young man’s bright, eager tone. They allowed him to wrestle the thrashing killer out of his tavern, staying well behind to avoid his kicks. Sharp’s eyes, Danforth noticed, had lost their proud gleam, and now fear and rage filled them. He suddenly very much wanted to see the man hang. He wanted to see him suffer and give up his life as he had stolen Madeleine Furay’s. It was odd; he had met the woman only once, and yet he had wanted her killer brought to justice passionately. Perhaps it was a good thing that the law allowed the curious and the vengeful to seek comfort in the deaths of the wicked. He swallowed, drawing his cloak close about his neck as he walked, as though it could protect him from his own cold, savage thoughts.

  Danforth and Martin left Lyne to push and drag Sharp to the Tolbooth. The body of Andrew Boyle was gone, and they ignored the barrage of questions from the usual ghoulish assortment of passers-by. All talk appeared to be of the killer being found; of there being a double hanging; of the former physician being an evil blasphemous criminal and the Sharp man having killed a burgess’s wife – robbery, naturally – and his own criminal colleague.

  They purchased some food, ate their meagre dinner, and then began to cross to McTavish’s inn. Danforth spotted Morris standing outside the Tolbooth and raised a hand to him. Morris came to meet them.

  ‘All is well, Master Baillie?’

  ‘Passing well, Danforth.’

  ‘Shall the two wretches be hanged without delay?’

  ‘Not so.’ Morris rubbed at his beard delicately, fanning it out with the palm of a hand.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Provost Cunningham is in the Tolbooth. He thanks you for your work.’

  ‘A gentleman so grateful he thanks us in person?’ asked Danforth.

  ‘There has been but little time,’ said Martin, more gently. ‘Wherefore are they not to be hanged forthwith?’

  ‘The Provost,’ said Morris, ‘wishes to devise some means of their being killed as a public spectacle, that the burgh might know that right justice is returned, and crimes shall be punished. Yet the men are not to be heard by those come to see their end. Baillie Lyne suggested that we bind fast their mouths.’

  ‘A wise young fellow, that,’ said Danforth.

  ‘He wishes to get on,’ shrugged Morris, laconically. ‘And the hangman must be paid out of the burgh treasury, and the scaffold brought out. Aye, it’s been a while since there’s been a good hanging.’

  ‘But when is it to be done?’

  ‘On the morrow. They will have one last night on this earth, and meet their ends tomorrow morning. That will allow word to circulate across the burgh, at church tonight.’ Danforth and Martin exchanged glances. There was something distasteful about that.

  ‘Very good, sir. You require nothing further of us?’

  ‘No, sir. You gentlemen have been a fine help. Heh …’

  ‘Yes, Master Baillie?’

  ‘I was just thinking,’ said Morris, pawing again at the beard, ‘that it ought to be young Martin here as laces up old McKenzie. By rights, sir, you should be hanging him by your own hand, for your sister and your home.’

  ‘And what,’ asked Martin coldly, ‘should that accomplish?’

  Morris only held up his hands defensively and smiled again. Danforth tipped his cap to him, and he and Martin walked back to their lodgings.

  The proprietor and his wife were still locked in debate. It seemed that Mr McTavish had come off the worse, for he was seated at one of the guest tables, his head in his hands, whilst Mistress Scott stood behind the bar, barking bitter words of condemnation. At their entry, she closed her mouth, but could not quite manage her unctuous smile. ‘Good day, gentlemen. I hear that there has been trouble down near the wynd, where base, weak-willed, vile men drag their sorry feet.’

  ‘Indeed there has, Mistress Scott,’ said Danforth. ‘Yet it is now past.’ He and Martin traipsed upstairs to their room, each collapsing on their cots. The shutters were open, allowing in cold light. The sun had come out, and was drifting in and out of clouds, at one moment brightening the room, the next darkening it. Martin let out a long, tired sigh.

  ‘It is over,’ said Danforth softly. ‘Arnaud, we have got them. Both.’

  ‘And yet I feel no great comfort in it, not such as I was expecting. I confess, sir, that on learning that the Furay woman was yet a bawd, I believed some important personage of the burgh might have done for her.’

  ‘What little faith you have,’ said Danforth. ‘You should not let your mind play you for a fool.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Yet it is not only disappointment that leaves me cold. Oh,’ he added, ‘I am glad McKenzie cannot hurt anyone again – though I doubt he could have, given he was but a vengeful ruin. I wanted him dead, yet faced with his death, I find no great joy.’

  ‘Because you wished him to suffer further through life?’

  ‘I did not say that, sir.’ Danforth remained silent, sensing that Martin had more he needed to say. ‘My sister … her life was worth something. It was of great value and taken at such a dear cost. McKenzie’s life is worth but little, and so he gives it most willingly. It is a cheap thing, and not worth noting. But did you remark, Simon, on what the creature said? He welcomed death
. He had no fear of it. He said that there was no Devil, that there was no God.’ A little twinge coursed through Danforth, someone walking over his grave.

  ‘He was mad,’ he said.

  ‘Yet there are men who deny God, who deny religion,’ persisted Martin.

  ‘Yes: mad men.’

  ‘They would say that they have deduced their beliefs from reason.’

  ‘Well, the mad can hardly be expected to know of their condition.’

  ‘And so you have never faltered, never stumbled in your belief?’

  ‘Never,’ said Danforth, but he was aware that his voice quivered. ‘No. I have not seen the baby queen, Mary, yet I know she exists, and that justice is done in her name.’

  ‘It is not quite the same. God is invisible.’

  ‘Yet his works are not. Martin, you speak of a sudden like one of these wild men who deny God.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Martin. He quickly crossed himself. ‘Yet I own that when I was younger, when I was taught by the monks, I did wonder.’

  ‘Then they taught you badly.’

  ‘No, indeed – they were a Godly lot. Yet natural curiosity led me to entertain strange ideas, now past.’

  ‘Arnaud,’ said Danforth, warming up to test ideas that had long been on his mind. ‘Think on this. Men are men, and women are women. We can be a goodly lot of creatures, witty and kind; but, conversely, we can be a demoniacal lot, slaughtering and killing one another, cheating, and victim to evil thoughts, doubts and cruelty. Now think on God, His infinite mercy, His son, who preached kindness and charity to all men. If these fellows who deny God were right, then He – Christ, the Holy Trinity – everything that is good and pure, are merely fond and foolish products of men such as you, or me, or Anthony Sharp, or John McKenzie. And that I cannot credit. Can human men create the divine?’

  Martin digested Danforth’s ideas quietly, looking for a flaw. He was sure there was one, but he did not want to appear contrary. ‘What,’ he asked mildly, ‘of evil? For that I have seen.’