The Bear Pit

by S. G. MacLean

  ‘He’s got enough to exercise him as it is. But if they don’t come quietly,’ said Seeker, flexing the fingers of a gauntleted hand, ‘I’m just in the mood for a spot of housekeeping.’

  They began to pass houses and gardens, the sounds coming from doors and windows increasing the further along Bankside and towards London Bridge they got. Theatres boarded up, baiting arenas pulled down, the ‘Winchester Geese’, those long-protected women of the night, thrown a year since from their closed-down stews to mend their ways elsewhere, and yet the miasma of vice lingered. Regardless of the best efforts of the Protectorate, Bankside remained Bankside and Southwark Southwark.

  They crossed Paris Garden bridge to a track past the market gardens that backed onto St George’s Fields. Proctor brought them to a halt in front of a closed gate in a wall that ran the length of several tenements. Seeker dismounted with three of the men and they tied up their horses, whilst Proctor motioned the other three to turn up the long narrow alley leading to the front of the property. ‘Count of sixty,’ Seeker said.

  Proctor nodded and followed his men up the alley.

  At twenty, one of the men levered open the gate, splitting lock from wood. By forty, as the alarm was raised inside the house, the soldiers were past a range of outbuildings and halfway up the yard. At sixty, Seeker was smashing through the back door as the fleeing occupants ran into Proctor coming through the front.

  It was difficult to see much to start with. Apart from the embers in the hearth, the only light came from an oil lamp suspended over a square table covered in green baize cloth. The contents of an upended wine jug crept over the cloth and soaked the cards that remained there. Red hexagonal chips and small ivory markers spilled across the floor nearby. A wooden card-dealing box, its contents indiscriminately disgorged, lay on its side, and the distinctive frame of a Faro tally board, its edges shattered and its wooden buttons come to rest far across the room, had kept its last points. The few coins that the gamblers had not managed to scoop from the table as they fled glinted and dulled on the baize as the lamp swung above them.

  At the edges of the room, Seeker was aware of sofas, draped in shawls that he suspected would be a deal less luxurious than first glance suggested. The place smelled like a cross between a bordello and a chop house. It was likely both, but Seeker had not the time to consider it for now. Almost over to the front door, he shot out an arm and hauled the hindmost gambler back by the collar of his very fine green velvet coat. As he did so, he caught a flash of movement on the corner landing of the stairs to his left. He twisted his captive’s arm up hard behind his back and threw him down against the table, which overturned sending the remaining cards and coins scattering across the floor to land at the feet of two over-painted, under-dressed women cowering by the chimney piece. ‘Watch them!’ he shouted to the soldier who’d come in behind him.

  Seeker began to mount the stairs, moving quickly but carefully. A solitary torch burned in a wall sconce in the upper room. At the far end, a figure was desperately working at the latch of the window. At the very moment he caught sight of Seeker emerging from the stairhead, he hoisted himself up as if preparing to jump. Seeker was three strides into the room when the catch at last gave and the casement opened. His quarry had a foot on the ledge when Seeker drew his quillon dagger from his belt and let fly with it, pinning the flared sleeve of the gambler’s coat to the wall. Such was the man’s shock that before he had time to think or attempt to divest himself of the coat, Seeker’s hands were planted on his shoulders and turning him around to the accompanying sound of tearing silk and velvet.

  Seeker looked at the complacent eyes in the handsome face and shook his head. ‘I knew it,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I just knew it.’

  *

  Ten minutes later, downstairs, the six gamblers, some of them bleeding from the nose or mouth and others nursing swelling eyes or fractured hands, had been manacled and the cart called to carry them the short distance to the Clink. The two drabs were still loudly denying that they were any such thing, even as they were being handed over to the ward constables for escort to the cellars of the White Lion, where they might spend the night with others of their sort. From the back yard came the noise of Seeker’s dog, barking.

  ‘He’ll have chased down a fox or some such,’ said Seeker.

  ‘He’s not the only one,’ said Proctor, cocking an eyebrow towards the righted table, to which Seeker’s quarry from the upper floor had been secured. ‘That one’s hardly out of the Tower five minutes.’

  ‘I know it,’ said Seeker. ‘Barkstead must be going soft over there.’ They both started to laugh and then stopped. The Keeper of the Tower and Major-General for Middlesex was anything but soft. ‘I’ll have a word with this brave lad though, then I’ll haul him over to the Clink myself.’

  Proctor knew enough not to ask questions he didn’t need the answers to, and simply nodded before turning his attention to the loading of the other five prisoners on to the cart.

  Once they had gone, soldiers and prisoners all, and the broken door closed as well as it could be behind them, Seeker pulled out a chair at the card table and sat down. He picked up a card, the jack of spades, and turned it over in his fingers, casually examining it. ‘So,’ he said at last, without looking at the man opposite him, ‘want to start talking?’

  ‘It was . . .’ the other man began. ‘You see, I mean I thought . . .’

  ‘Thought?’ said Seeker, smashing the card face down on the table. ‘I doubt you thought at all! Mr Thurloe took you on at my word, my word. You were to keep a low profile, pass quietly amongst your Royalist friends, make connections with people of quality and influence. You were, under no circumstances, to draw attention upon yourself.’

  Sir Thomas Faithly, who had flinched slightly when Seeker’s hand had slammed onto the table, had recovered himself somewhat and attempted his accustomed easy smile. ‘I’m sorry, Seeker. I was . . . bored.’

  There was a terrible silence for a moment, broken only by the continued barking of the dog in the yard. Seeker considered letting it in, but didn’t trust himself not to set the beast on Thomas Faithly. He took a deep breath. ‘Bored? You were bored?’ The last word was enunciated with such disgust that Faithly’s smile evaporated on his face. ‘Are you missing the Tower then? Fun and games there, was it? Or are you hoping to slip back off to your old playmate, Charles Stuart?’ Seeker paused a moment, in an effort to calm himself. ‘I can’t believe I wasted my time or Mr Thurloe’s taking you down here from the North Riding last year. I should have left you with the major-general in York, and let him show you what happens to captured Royalist spies.’

  Faithly’s features tightened. ‘You know I’m not a spy, Seeker. Not for the Stuarts, anyway.’

  ‘Well you’re proving yourself a worse than useless one for us.’

  Faithly made to move his hands, but was cut short by the set of manacles binding his wrists. He pulled his hands back. ‘I’ve only been out of the Tower two months, Seeker. These things take time. I’ve begun to make the connections Mr Thurloe asked me to, I’ve wormed my way into John Evelyn’s circle, for instance, tedious prig that he is . . .’

  Seeker snorted. ‘You mean he’s more on his mind than drinking and whoring.’

  Faithly flushed. ‘As do most of the King’s supporters. But no, Mr Evelyn never did seem quite at ease at Charles’s court at St Germains, and it has taken me long enough to counter the ill opinion he formed of me there. I’m beginning to make my way, make inroads into the trust of several persons of note, but for pity’s sake, Seeker, a man needs some diversion.’

  ‘Indeed. And how do you think news of this “diversion” of yours will play out down Deptford way?’

  ‘Down . . .?’ Faithly gave an uncomprehending shrug. ‘You mean at Sayes Court? Why should anyone at John Evelyn’s house hear about this? Is that not why you’ve kept me aside from the others?’<
br />
  Seeker regarded the man a moment, puzzled, and then realised what Faithly was saying to him. He let out a short laugh of disbelief. ‘What? You think I’m going to tidy this up for you, to make it go away?’

  ‘But surely, Mr Thurloe . . .’

  ‘Mr Thurloe? If word gets out, and it will – your companions there looked none too sober, or discreet – that you were taken in a raid here, but that I saw to it that you were let off whilst the others were sent to the Clink until such time as the Southwark magistrates took an interest in them, how long do you think it would take your fine friend Mr Evelyn to work out that you were in Mr Thurloe’s pay?’

  Seeker saw comprehension dawn on Thomas Faithly’s face.

  ‘You’ll go to the Clink tonight. You’ll damn and blast me and all my works, you’ll tell them I gave you another hiding for trying to run from me.’

  At Faithly’s mildly alarmed look Seeker pulled a face. ‘You can pretend, can’t you?’

  Faithly relaxed a little and nodded.

  ‘Most of all,’ continued Seeker, ‘you’ll keep your ears open. I’ll whistle up a magistrate and you’ll be out with a fine before tomorrow dinnertime. And you’ll keep your nose cleaner than old Lady Cromwell’s bonnet from now on, understand?’

  Faithly drew a heavy breath. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Right,’ said Seeker, bending to undo the link securing Faithly’s ankle to the table leg, ‘we’ll see what’s bothering my dog and then you’re for the Clink.’

  *

  Outside, the fog from the river had made its way down the yard, but it took little effort to find where the dog’s barking was coming from. He was standing outside the door of a stone structure built against the far wall. Seeker briefly noted the strangeness of it: a stone outbuilding when the main property, like most of its neighbours, had been constructed almost entirely of wood. The dog’s hackles were up, but he wasn’t snarling as Seeker had sometimes seen him do with a cornered rat or other vermin.

  ‘Stinks like a French butcher’s down here,’ said Faithly. ‘Must be a dead animal or something.’

  ‘Probably,’ replied Seeker, passing the torch to Faithly before reaching down to calm the dog. Then he lifted his horseman’s axe from his belt and brought it down heavily to sever the padlock from the building’s wooden door. He pushed open the door and the dog bounded in ahead of him. That was when the snarling began. Seeker took the torch again from Faithly and stepped carefully inside, then he stopped.

  ‘What is it?’ said Faithly, making to come in after him.

  Seeker shook his head. ‘Dear Jesus,’ he said at last.

  He took another step forward, past the dog, and held up the torch that Faithly might also see. A moment later, Thomas Faithly who had fought in the wars and seen men shot through by cannon, was staggering back out of the door to void the contents of his stomach in the yard.

  Seeker remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the floor at the far end of the outhouse. ‘Out, boy,’ he said at last.

  The dog gave off its low snarling and cast questioning eyes at its master.

  ‘Out,’ Seeker repeated, and the animal slunk out.

  Still holding up the torch, Seeker took another two paces forward. There had been no doubt, from the moment he’d stepped in here, what he was looking at: a human being who had been half eaten. At closer quarters, it was clear that what lay mangled on the beaten earth floor, chained at the neck by an iron dog-collar to the wall, one arm torn wholly away, was the remains of a man. Seeker crouched down and brought the torch closer to the gory mess of bloody flesh, bone and rags.

  The legs were ravaged, the stomach all but gouged out, and half the face gone, but it was as if whatever had so savaged this man had reached its limits, been restrained somehow. The side of the face that was pressed against the dirt floor appeared to have been untouched, if spattered with blood, as was the remaining arm, also on that side. Seeker reached out and gently turned the head. The hair was sparse, and grey, as was the close-cropped beard. The skin was rough, and deeply lined, the horror-struck eye yellowed, as were the few teeth in the torn mouth. A man of between sixty and seventy years of age, he would have said. Seeker forced himself to look into that face a while, as if somehow to keep company with this nameless stranger in his last, terrible moments.

  A sound from the doorway took his attention and he turned around. It was Thomas Faithly, wiping his mouth. Faithly’s voice was hoarse. ‘What in God’s name is this, Seeker?’

  Seeker stood up, and cast around for a moment for a rag or some other scrap of fabric on which to wipe the muck and gore from the fingers of his gauntlet. He found none.

  ‘It’s . . . a slaughterhouse, Sir Thomas. A man was killed here, chained up and slaughtered like a beast.’

  Faithly took a hesitant step in and then another. ‘Or by a beast,’ he said. ‘No human hand did this.’

  ‘No,’ said Seeker, surveying again the mauled mess on the ground. ‘That you are right about, but when was the last time you saw an animal work a set of manacles?’ He held the torch up so that Faithly might see the collar by which the man was chained to the wall.

  Disbelief spread over Faithly’s face. ‘Someone left him here? To die like this?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t do it himself,’ said Seeker, finally coming upon a piece of sacking, on which he wiped his gauntlet as best he could. ‘Push that door over and come and take a closer look.’

  Faithly shook his head. ‘I’ve seen enough.’

  ‘I need you to tell me what you know of this man.’

  ‘But I . . .’

  ‘Just take a look.’

  Faithly swallowed and appeared to steel himself, before taking a couple of steps towards the body. Seeker held the torch up to illuminate the remainder of the man’s face. After first instinctively looking away, Faithly forced himself to look back. He bent a little closer, surveyed what was left of the body, then stood up. ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘Think. You’ve never seen him here before, never encountered him anywhere?’

  Again Faithly shook his head. ‘I’m good at faces, Captain. It’s in my interest not to forget who I might have come across before – I need to remember what side they think I’m on. I’ve never seen that poor devil in my life before.’

  Seeker let out a deep breath and straightened himself. ‘All right. Nothing more for you here tonight then. I need to get you to the Clink and get a guard on that door.’

  Faithly made no protest as Seeker reattached his manacles. There was no need, either, for him to feign weakness or injury from some pretended beating. So pale and shaken was he by what he had just looked on that none would doubt he had been the object of the captain’s special attentions. Seeker pulled the door to after them and commanded the dog to stay. No one would be able to enter the outbuilding until such time as he returned with extra men.

  As they were going back through the house to access Bankside from the front door, Seeker said, ‘I want the names of every man you sat down here with tonight – their real names, mind – and that of whoever owns this house. And you don’t breathe a word, to any of them, of what we found here. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ said Faithly, his voice still hoarse.

  ‘Good.’

  Nothing more was said between them as they made their way towards the gaol, the wash of the river on the shore a few yards away from them mingling with the usual sounds of human life drifting from the homes and taverns they passed, just as it must have done when a man was being mauled to death little more than a tenement’s length away. They had almost reached the base of the forbidding walls of the Clink itself when Faithly stopped.

  ‘You’re going in, Sir Thomas,’ Seeker said.

  It was as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘What did that, Seeker?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What manner of beast killed tha
t man?’

  ‘I think you know as well as I do.’ Five lines scored into the remaining skin. Claws. Rows of teeth marks punctured at either side by deep incisors – bites from a massive jaw.

  Thomas Faithly wasn’t really listening to him. ‘I’ve seen things. Sheep with their guts ripped out, animals savaged by wolves. A man once, but that—’

  ‘It was a bear.’

  Faithly nodded. ‘But they’re all gone, surely?’ He contorted his brow. ‘They were shot months since, and the arena pulled down.’

  Seeker glanced back down the street to the site of the Hope Theatre, once the arena for the bear baiting that had entertained the godly citizens of London for so long, and now rubble, a building plot waiting to be cleared.

  ‘It would seem that there’s one of them left,’ he said.

  Two

  A Holiday

  The bells were ringing eight and the fog was already clearing as Seeker once again crossed the river from Whitehall to Lambeth. Rather than go northwards this time, he rode over the bridge and past the sprawl of Lambeth Palace to take the road that skirted St George’s Fields. To the north, he could see smoke rising here and there from scattered dwellings on the marsh. It was not so sinister a place now as it had seemed last night, but there was something desolate about those cottages, all the same.

  He was hungry, but he didn’t slow his horse when the Dog and Duck inn, a mile or so out on the marsh, came into view. He’d come here once, with Maria, in those brief days when it had seemed possible that he might lead two lives – one as an officer of the Protectorate, the other as an ordinary man, in love with a lawyer’s sister. But Maria’s brother had been a lawyer of the radical element, as much acquainted with the inside of a prison cell as were most of his clients, and she shared her brother’s views. It had been a foolish delusion to think that he and she might love as any other man and woman, and they had both suffered for it.

  It had been a while since he’d let himself remember: they’d walked out to St George’s Fields and to the fort, left over from the first civil war. Maria and her brother had been amongst those citizens of London, men, women and children, who had marched out to the fields, dug trenches, and carried earth to throw up a string of defences to encircle the city and Westminster, protecting the capital from their own King. She’d told him how tired the work had made her, and how frightened she’d been, lying in her bed at night, listening for the alarum that would tell them the dreaded forces of Prince Rupert had breached the bulwarks. But the alarum had never come. Rupert had been ordered to stop before he got to London.