Plague

by C. C. Humphreys

  “Meet to take Lord Carnarvon’s carriages? This was in December?”

  “Aye. On Hounslow Heath, two nights later. It was then I called his name, by mistake like. He was furious. Levelled his pistol at me. I thought he was going to blow my head off. But he didn’t.” Maclean scratched at his thatch, flakes of falling skin glistening in the firelight. “Leastways, I don’t reckon so.”

  As Maclean laughed, Pitman thought about Mr. Coke’s—or Captain Cock’s—pistol, the one he’d found in the carriage, how he’d discovered it had charge but no ball in it. The man had never intended to kill. Not with powder, anyway.

  “Did he seem mad to you?”

  “Only when I named him. Oh, you mean because of the slaughter in Finchley? What about that, eh?” Maclean shook his head. “He was always a quiet bastard. Never said much. But lots of mad bastards about after the wars, aren’t there? And it’s them quiet ones you have to watch out for.”

  “His voice. How was it?”

  “How d’ya mean?”

  “Was he a gentleman?”

  “He was a country cunt. West somewhere. Bristol?” He’d shrugged. “He used some fancy words so—”

  Pitman had stood then. “Two days, Maclean. And then I’ll be looking for you.”

  Two days now since Pitman had let Maclean go, but he hadn’t verified if the Irishman had done so. Wouldn’t, nor would he waste any time looking for a red-haired whore, because he’d thought of an easier way to track down “Coke,” as he must now think of him.

  He would look for the jewels.

  It was noon exactly. The bells of St. Margaret Patton tolled the hour just as he arrived before the third most likely address nearest the Hounsditch, a gold- and silversmith’s near the corner of Philpot Lane. One hand on the doorknob, he peered through the thick leaded glass, discerned a human shape within. The Jew, he presumed, and prosperous enough to have glass in his door.

  He entered, a small bell set above the door sounding tinnily. Noon, and the light thus behind him, he saw the man look up, squinting. A hand rose to block the harsh rays.

  “Well, Captain, you come most promptly upon your hour.”

  Pitman paused, his hand still on the door. The Jew removed spectacles, rubbed his eyes, looked up again. “I apologize, sir,” he said. “I mistook you for someone else.”

  “A captain.” Pitman laughed. “I am flattered, sir. Though I was a soldier, I only ever made corporal. This lovely morning’s sun must have given me a glow.”

  “Lovely indeed.” The Jew emerged from behind his counter and crossed to the door. He was small; Pitman gazed down easily upon his glossy hair, his leather skullcap. The goldsmith opened the door and stepped onto the threshold, then peered up and down the street.

  “Are you searching for your captain?” Pitman inquired.

  “I am. Captain Whittaker is a little shy. Some who do business here are, sir. I was hoping to call him in if he was about.”

  There had been no hesitation on the name, nothing in the man’s smile or voice to indicate concern. But from his gambling days, Pitman had always been a good reader of others. When men bet, there was often some small gesture that gave their cards away. And this man, when he’d talked of the captain, had run his tongue over his lips. Pitman would watch for its repetition.

  The goldsmith went back behind his counter. Pitman advanced to a tall stool before it. “May I?”

  “Please.”

  Pitman sat. His height and girth meant that he blocked the sunlight from the small man’s face.

  “Now, sir,” the Jew said, “how may I be of service?”

  “You have been recommended to me as an honest man. A fair dealer.”

  “I am pleased to own such a reputation. By whom, may I ask?”

  “Oh, more than one, sir, more than one. You are also prized for an especial virtue.”

  “Which is?”

  “Discretion.” Pitman leaned forward and the sun flashed in the goldsmith’s eyes. “I am engaged by a … a certain gentleman. A nobleman. You understand, no names?”

  “I understand completely.”

  “His lordship has lost something he prizes. ‘Lost’ is a loose term. He believes that one of his servants may have stolen this item and may be seeking to sell it.”

  “I see.” The goldsmith shifted to his left until Pitman again blocked the sunlight. “And these friends who recommended me think that I may be a dealer in such ‘lost’ goods?”

  It was spoken with no trace of his previous courtesy. “Oh, not at all, Mr.—ben Judah, is it? Not at all. No one would think you would knowingly deal in such items. Many honestly obtained jewels must cross this counter daily.”

  The man nodded. “All, as far as I am aware. As long as we are clear on that point, sir?”

  “As clear as Buxton water, Mr. ben Judah. May I proceed?”

  Tread soft, Pitman, he warned himself, then continued. “The item in question is a rather fine set of jewels, given to the duchess on the occasion of a twentieth anniversary. I hope, sir, I have not revealed too much about the man I serve. I rely on your reputed discretion.”

  “You may do so. Can you describe the jewels?”

  “I can do rather better than that, sir.” Pitman smiled broadly. “The duke had just commissioned the artist Lely to do a painting of his wife and him to celebrate their anniversary. Mr. Lely made some preliminary rough sketches—including one of the jewels. And here it is.”

  He’d always liked the way people were surprised in that moment when conjurers produced some object to astonish. And he had rolled the paper in such a way that when he produced it from his pocket, it unfolded suddenly. Pitman watched the Jew study the sketch then lick his lips.

  Oh, I see you, thought Pitman.

  The Jew pulled four small lead scale weights from beneath his counter and placed one on each corner of the sketch. Then he donned his spectacles and bent to study. Pitman kept still until, seeing the goldsmith about to look up, he leaned to his right. Sunlight reflected on glass. The Jew squinted, blinked several times, removed his glasses and shook his head. “Alas, sir,” he said, raising one hand to block out the sun, “I will have to disappoint his lordship and you for I have never seen this necklace.”

  The devil you haven’t, thought Pitman, and reached to take the man by his throat.

  But his hand grasped only air, for ben Judah leaned hard back, then stood and stepped back a pace. In one hand he still held his spectacles. In the other he held a gun. “You will stand up,” ben Judah said, full cocking the hammer, “and you will leave my shop.”

  “Sir,” Pitman said, spreading his arms wide, “what do you mean by this?”

  “You were attempting to lay hold of me.”

  “I was reaching for my paper.”

  “And you may take it up now.” The gun barrel flicked slightly. “Take it up and leave.”

  “I will.” Pitman lifted a corner of the sketch and pulled. The springiness of the paper made two of the weights drop to the floor. But the gun’s aim did not waver. Tucking the sketch away, he said, “Sir, I fear I have alarmed you. It was not my intention. Can we not discuss this reasonably?”

  “There is nothing to discuss” came the reply. “I have not seen your necklace. I wish you to go.”

  Pitman moved to the door, opened it. The bell above jangled. He stepped into the street. The Jew followed, but just to the threshold. There was a moment when they were close enough that Pitman wondered if he could risk going for the gun. But glancing about, he noted many people on the street, several of them wearing the same leather skullcaps as ben Judah.

  He looked back to find the Jew not looking at him but up the street. Then the goldsmith raised the gun, pointed it over Pitman’s head at the charred remnants of the house opposite and fired.

  The noise was not loud, yet people started all around. Pitman felt a spark land in his hair. He bent over, slapped the sudden sting. When he looked up again, it was to see the door slamming before him. A momen
t later came the sound of a bolt.

  Why did he fire? Pitman wondered, still patting his smarting scalp. To warn me off? Or to warn someone else?

  He swivelled, looking up and down the street. Men and women stared curiously at this large man wreathed in gunsmoke before the jeweller’s. Pitman noticed no one out of the ordinary. Yet he had a feeling, as if someone’s gaze, there a moment before, had suddenly gone.

  Were you here, Captain Coke or Cock? So close? Here for your reward? Well, I will have you closer still. Will I not, Lord, by thy sweet grace?

  THE LIGHT

  Cursing, John Chalker watched Lord Garnthorpe vanish from sight.

  “Damn you, Garnthorpe. Damn you and damn myself.”

  Chalker stared across the green at the meeting house, its whitewashed walls yellowed by twilight. He’d waited opposite Garnthorpe’s columned portico in St. James’s so he’d know exactly what the man looked like. Then he’d dogged him for two hours, all the way to this village of Newington, hoping for a quiet place to have his words. But now, just when he’d got close, his ignoble lordship had slipped into the sanctuary of his fellow Fifth Monarchist madmen. Saints, as they called themselves.

  Thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, John gripped his blackthorn cudgel and his razor. Though he’d never planned to use them as more than threat, he did not think he would get even that chance now. He could hardly march into a Saints meeting and deliver a warning in word, cosh and blade. Yet he could not wait—he’d been told these meetings went all evening in prayers, visions, exhortations to action. Night was coming fast, and it was a long walk back to London.

  Shite! He cussed, suddenly tired and hungry. Why had he not spent the Sabbath at home and content with Sarah? Why had he not heeded her caution to leave well alone? All they’d learned of Garnthorpe in the week since he’d approached Sarah at the theatre testified to a mad dog. The most brutal of soldiers during the wars, later the man had even spent a year in the same Bethlehem Hospital where his father, the first Lord Garnthorpe, had died, poxed and raving. Was not a Bedlamite hound likely to be distracted by the next thing, the next person who came to his scent? Garnthorpe had not returned to the playhouse, made no further attempt at contact. Perhaps Sarah was right and the man was merely infatuated, harmless.

  Then John remembered the bruise on Sarah’s wrist that had deepened in the days since and the fear that had lingered in her eyes. He’d known Sarah from a girl. He, a few years older, had watched her grow, admired her spirit long before he’d thought of her in any other way; marked her fight her way from the shit-filled streets of their parish all the way to and through the doors of the Duke’s playhouse. He had never, not once, seen her as discomfited as when Sir Roland had gripped her so hard.

  No. The man must be warned off. Maybe even punished, just a little. With all the plays that had to be learned and put on, John knew he would not get another chance till next Sunday, and maybe not then. He’d walked this far, damn it; he could walk a little farther—and did, across Newington Green to the meeting-house door.

  “Greetings, Brother. God’s blessing upon you.”

  After a few questions to establish his character—having played a Saint onstage, John could utter the terms with the required fervour—the large doorman waved him inside, others crowding in behind. The door was soon shut upon them. Well, he thought, seeking a place toward the rear, it has been a while since I attended any worship. Even the Anglican to which Sarah sometimes dragged him. He would be seeing none of that ceremony here. He knew that the Acts of Uniformity and Conventicles forbad any but the Church of England’s worship within the city—but that did not prevent nonconformists meeting there in secret. More often, though, the banned sects gathered in outlying villages such as Newington, where they had a better chance of escaping notice and persecution.

  Is this my chance to make my peace with God? To ask his forgiveness for my trespasses to come? He fingered his razor. “Thy will be done,” he murmured.

  Brothers were hushing one another as a Saint stepped into the pulpit. John looked at the man—who seemed for a moment to be looking right back at him. He had cropped hair the colour of autumn straw, and thin eyebrows visible only where they were slashed through with white. His nose had been violently broken at some stage, a scar across the bridge. Even at that distance, his eyes appeared pale. I know you, thought John, slipping into the shadows by a pillar. But where from? When he looked up again, the man had raised his arms and his gaze was above the congregation.

  “ ‘Our Father,’ ” the man began, “ ‘who art in heaven …’ ”

  The words were universal and John spoke his lines with passion, joined in the amens as loud as any. As the chorus of them faded, the man in the pulpit spoke on. “Brothers,” he intoned, “today, this fifteenth day of the fifth month, I will recount to you a dream I had last night.”

  “Say it, Brother!” implored one Saint. “Testify!” called others.

  “I will.”

  The man’s voice lowered but still carried. An actor’s delivery, John decided.

  “I was alone in a great field of corn, without the walls of a magnificent city filled with many tall towers and great gates. I desired to see more clearly this shining place. So I climbed a tree that stood nearby, a mighty English oak, in full leaf, and through its canopy did I peer over the walls. There I beheld …” He paused, gazing over the upturned faces. “Streets filled with sinners. Heard voices raised in lamentation. But even as I watched, the gates were opened. First a huge pack of dogs came baying, and on their tails, sinners flooding out. Those sinners were a great multitude and all—all, each and every one!—did fall down beneath the tree in which I sat. Yet even as their bodies touched the ground …” Another pause, held longer. “They did vanish.”

  A sigh ran through the congregation, like a shiver of wind stirring that cornfield. The man next to him, staring up, whispered, “Is that Revelation?” John nodded. What else would the passage be? His former comrade, Blenkinsop, had told him a lot about these so-called “Saints” in which he was numbered. Their obsession with the Bible, especially that book of Revelation. Their rejection of “pagan” names for days and months. Their lack of prayers, saving only the Lord’s. They awaited the imminent return of King Jesus. He would bring the Fifth Monarchy, the End of Days—which they would hasten, John reminded himself. Though they believed that this end was inevitable, they did not merely sit and pray for it. Since the king’s restoration five years earlier, scarce a year had passed undisrupted by riot or even attempted revolt, these Saints ever in the vanguard.

  The man in the pulpit spoke again. “Do you wish to hear, Brothers, the verses I found after my dream, opening my Bible at random, that no man could have predicted?”

  “Read them!” the faithful shouted.

  “I do not need to read them, burned as they are into my soul. Revelation. Chapter twenty-two. Verses fourteen and fifteen.”

  Nearby a church’s bell tolled the hour. The man paused, all listened to this mark of time’s passing. Then hard on the bell’s eighth and final toll came another sound: a bugle. The congregation began to mutter and a moment later the man who’d admitted John to the chapel cried out, “ ’Tis Magistrate Chalmers! The militia’s at his back. Come to arrest us!”

  “Betrayal!” someone yelled. “There’s a traitor among us!”

  “Let’s fight!” shouted another.

  “Aye! Fight ’em!”

  There were more shouts in favour than in dissent. From beneath coats, pistols appeared and men began to prime.

  “No!”

  The voice was from the pulpit. It rose above the shouts, and once more John thought, He’s either commanded a playhouse, sergeanted a regiment—or both, as I have done.

  “Do not fight, Brothers! Not now, when we have been betrayed and are in choler. We were called today to hear that the hour to rise is at hand, when the seventh seal, as prophesied, will be opened.”

  The horn sounded again, a drum joi
ning it. The man at the pulpit raised his voice still louder: “It is soon—but it is not today. Too many of our brethren are in their foul dungeons—we need all to be free and ready. Oh, most ready in arms. For is it not also said, ‘A man may as well go into the harvest without his sickle, as to this work without his sword.’ ”

  He looked down—and John felt again that the man’s gaze sought him out alone. “As for the Judas among us, know this: You will be discovered. You will be punished, even in the manner described in Holy Testament.” Trumpet and drum sounded ever nearer. He raised his hands. “Go by separate ways, each to his home. Keep your powder dry and await the summons of King Jesus to the harvest!”

  With this, the man leaped from the pulpit and ran to the back of the chapel. Other doors were opened, at the side as well as the front—through which was heard again and louder the strike of drum. John was about to run out this nearest exit—he had no wish to be mistaken by the local magistrate as a Monarchist man—when he glimpsed Garnthorpe rushing out a side doorway. Pushing back against the throng, he gained that same door and followed. Maybe he would get his chance for a word after all.

  The congregation did not linger. By the drums, the militia was approaching from the north-east, so the Saints scattered in pairs, foursomes, all heading south and west, avoiding the direct road, taking to the fields. Ahead, alone, Garnthorpe crossed to Hollow Way, there joining the main highway down to the City. John, keeping his quarry ever in his sight as the bugles faded behind him, fell in with three hat makers, who shared some wine and bread with him. His lordship’s pace did not slacken, neither for refreshment nor rest, bearing ever westward.

  John parted from the hat makers near Clerkenwell. Yet Garnthorpe, instead of continuing south to Fleet Street and then on to the Strand—roads where householders observed the ordinances to keep a light before their door after dusk—cut west. And in a short time, John heard a sound he knew well. He smiled, for he had grown up within the clamour of the bell of St. Giles in the Fields.