Chaos

by A D Swanston

  Taking care not to look back over his shoulder, Christopher walked slowly. He stopped to buy a small pie from a vendor and again for a cup of milk from a milkmaid. He did not look round but concentrated on sensing the shadow. He felt nothing. Disappointed, he moved on, arriving in the churchyard just as a trained band troop marched through it on their way to drill in Holborn Fields.

  The market in St Paul’s yard was the place for members of the Stationers’ Company, whose Hall was nearby, to show off their wares. There a man could buy not only rare books but also fine writing materials – duck-feather pens, good oak-apple ink, well-made rag paper. Most of the books were beyond Christopher’s purse, but he would not stint on pens and ink. Good penmanship had been instilled in him from an early age by his schoolmaster father.

  On busy days the bustle of the market could even spread into the nave of the church. There news was exchanged and bargains struck. Today, however, once the trained band had gone, it was quiet, which suited their purpose well. It would be much easier to identify and apprehend a man who could not disappear into a throng of bodies. He wandered around the square, stopping to exchange a few words with the stationers he knew and to browse at their stalls, thus giving Wetherby plenty of time to take up his position in the unnamed lane to the side of the church, where he could hide in the shadows without much risk of being seen but from where he had a clear view of the churchyard.

  When Wetherby identified the watcher – it should not be difficult as Christopher had given him a description of the man, whose eyes would be firmly on his quarry – he would run at him shouting for the thief to be arrested. Traders in any market hated the thieves who plagued them and invariably observed the unspoken rule that a thief to one was a thief to all. They would rush to Wetherby’s aid and bring down the watcher. A constable would be called and the felon taken into custody, accompanied by Christopher and Wetherby. Not a perfect plan but not a hopeless one.

  When the church bell struck ten Christopher realized with a shock that he had been in the yard for an hour. There was no point in continuing. If the watcher had been there, Wetherby would have seen him and raised the alarm. He made his way to the corner of the church where Wetherby would be, intending to call off the plan, perhaps to try again on the morrow.

  But of Wetherby there was no sign. Christopher peered down the lane and called out for him. Surely he would not have deserted his post without warning, yet where was he? Christopher went further into the lane, straining his eyes against the gloom and keeping a tight hold on his purse.

  The sound he heard might have been made by a cat or even a newborn left to die. It was a sorry cry, feeble and pitiful. But when he moved towards it he made out a human form lying across a doorway, its head resting on the cobbles, its feet in a pool of muck.

  He knew at once that it was Wetherby and swore mightily. First Isaac, now Roland. He squatted down to lift the stricken man’s head. His eyes were closed but he was breathing freely. Christopher spoke his name. At first there was no response. He spoke it again and Wetherby’s eyelids flickered, and then opened. He turned his head to the side and vomited.

  ‘Can you stand?’ asked Christopher once the retching had stopped. Wetherby nodded and Christopher helped him to his feet. ‘Lean on me until you are steady,’ he said with an arm around Wetherby’s shoulders.

  They stood like that until Wetherby whispered, ‘I saw nothing. A blow from behind.’ He reached down to where his purse should be. ‘A thief. My purse has been taken. May the fellow rot in hell.’

  ‘Did you see the shadow?’

  ‘I did not. I am sure he was not in the market.’

  ‘You saw nothing, heard nothing, Roland? A skilled thief indeed.’

  ‘Nothing. I was intent upon watching out for our man.’

  ‘Could it have been our man who surprised you?’

  ‘If so, he was more than skilled. The eyes of a hawk and invisible. And my purse has gone. Not that the devil will have found much in it. Come now, Christopher, an army of drummers are playing inside my head but with a little help I can walk back to Ludgate Hill. For the love of God let us be gone from this place.’

  They had taken a single step when Christopher felt an arm encircle his neck from behind. Instinctively, he let go of Wetherby and reached up to grasp it. Wetherby slumped to the ground.

  Christopher had heard nothing, not a sound, just as Roland had not, and the arm was thick and knotted like a ship’s rope. He could not dislodge it and could barely take a breath. A muffled voice whispered in his ear: ‘A foolish trick. Try again and your pretty friend will lose his looks and you will lose your eyes.’

  Christopher let go of the arm with his right hand and reached round to find his blade. Immediately the arm strengthened its hold and forced his head backwards. ‘Did you not hear me?’ growled the voice.

  Christopher tried again. He bent his knees and let his weight pull him downwards. With luck the assailant would not be able to hold him up and he might slip through his grasp. The grip loosened a little but not enough. The man held on until Christopher had to either stand up or fall back. He tried a sudden jerk upwards and felt the back of his head hit the man’s chin. There was a yelp of surprise and the grip loosened enough for him to wriggle free. He turned sharply but his vision was blurred. He caught just a glimpse of a broad back hurrying off and disappearing around a corner in the alley, nothing more. Christopher rubbed his head. The man had been strong and skilled. And, Wetherby’s purse or not, no common thief.

  Wetherby was still on the ground, his face turned to the wall. Christopher knelt down to him and gently turned him on to his back. ‘Roland, can you hear me?’ he asked, and immediately wished that he had not. The words had come out in a fiery rasp. He put an ear to Wetherby’s face and heard the sound of soft breathing. He was alive but Christopher dare not leave him to fetch help and calling out for help would have been pointless. Even if he were heard no sane man would be lured into that alley by what might be a trap. He sat down beside Wetherby and waited.

  The attacker could have killed them both but had not. Neither of them had seen his face but was there any doubt that he was the shadow? If he was, what was his purpose? Had he been Isaac’s attacker? Or had that been Ell’s murdered customer who had disappeared from the deadhouse?

  Wetherby stirred and opened his eyes. ‘Has he fled, Christopher?’ he croaked.

  ‘He has. I had to let you fall. Can you stand?’

  ‘I can try. Help me up.’

  Christopher slipped an arm under his shoulders and heaved him up. ‘How is that?’ he asked.

  ‘My legs feel like bowls of rice pudding. But hold on and we might just find our way home.’

  They had to stop twice but eventually staggered back to the house. Christopher sat Roland in the study and gave him a beaker of beer. ‘Best I can do, Roland. Good French brandy would be better for you but I have none,’ he said.

  ‘A pity.’ Wetherby sighed, putting aside the beaker. ‘This beer tastes foul. Was it a thief, do you think?’

  ‘No. It was the shadow but what his purpose was or is I cannot say. We were unlucky.’

  Wetherby spluttered and put a hand to his head. ‘We? In what way, pray, were you unlucky, Christopher?’

  ‘My head too is a little painful but I meant only that we did not catch him. How does yours feel? Would more beer help?’

  Wetherby stood up and put a hand on Christopher’s desk to steady himself. ‘No, thank you. I shall return to Whitehall.’

  ‘Are you sure? You are welcome to use my bed until you have recovered a little more.’

  ‘Quite sure. At the palace I shall be safe from cudgel-brandishing vagabonds and I may expect rest, brandy and consolation.’

  Christopher rubbed his head gingerly as he watched Roland make his way unsteadily down the hill. The plan had failed hopelessly but they were alive and would both recover.

  There had been no word from Katherine since she had stormed out in a fury and for all
he knew she had left London and returned to Cambridge. She had neither apologized nor recanted nor made any effort to speak to him. It went with her flame-red hair – stubbornness, pride, a refusal to admit error. Sometimes, not often, these qualities were appealing. Increasingly, they were wearisome beyond measure.

  CHAPTER 16

  The coroner’s boy arrived that evening. A body had been fished from the river and lay in the deadhouse. Dr Radcliff might care to examine it.

  He followed the boy to the deadhouse where the coroner was waiting for him. The little man smirked. ‘Dr Radcliff, it seems that our man has come to pay us another visit.’ Christopher ignored him.

  The stench of decay lay even heavier than it had on his last visit. The corpse lay on one of the four tables, covered with a grey sheet which did not quite reach his ankles, leaving bite marks exposed on a pair of bloodless feet.

  Pyke removed the sheet, unleashing a blast of corruption that made Christopher gag. ‘There, Dr Radcliff, your man, I rather think.’ Pyke was clearly enjoying Christopher’s discomfort.

  ‘My man, coroner? I do not understand your meaning.’

  Pyke grinned. ‘The man in whom you showed an interest when he last paid us a visit. It is he, is it not?’

  There was no doubt. Even after some time in the river, even after the predations of the crabs which had feasted on the bloated carcass and the fish which had nibbled at its feet, even after the removal of an arm – by beast or human? – leaving a ghastly stump at the elbow, it was the body of the man murdered outside Ell’s stew. The eyes had gone but the hair and beard had not. The shape of the head was right, as was the height of the man. His throat had been cut and the crosses cut on his cheeks were still visible.

  ‘Where was he found?’ asked Christopher.

  ‘At Tower steps by a wherryman not two hours ago. Most of our river-bodies wash up there. It’s on account of the current.’

  ‘And what now is your opinion of how a dead man managed to escape this room and jump into the river?’

  ‘He was taken from here and thrown in the river. I cannot say by whom but I believe it was an act of maleficium – a witch’s doing. How else could it have happened – and why? No, when asked, I shall give my opinion that this man was the victim in life of an attack by an unknown assailant and in death by a trick of one of Satan’s foul followers.’

  Christopher shook his head. Clennet Pyke was an imbecile. ‘Will there now be an inquest?’ he asked, trying to keep his temper.

  ‘I think not,’ replied the flat-faced coroner. ‘The body is already decayed and will decay still more before a jury can be summoned. It would not be right to expose them to such a sight.’

  The deceased’s body was displayed at an inquest so that members of the jury and the public could inspect it, unless the coroner thought it prudent for reasons of health or sensibility not to allow this. Coroners, of course, varied in their judgement and in how they then treated the death. The most idle, of whom Clennet Pyke was certainly one, would simply record the death and give as its cause ‘killed by an unknown hand’. No jury, no inquest, no work, no cost.

  ‘Unless you have good reason to delay, doctor, I shall order a burial for Tuesday next. The common graves at Moorfields will accommodate him.’

  Christopher could think of no reason to delay burial. Before long the remaining flesh would fall away and the corpse would liquefy. That was when its evil humours would be at their worst, spreading disease and yet more death. Best to bury it under the soil.

  That night he awoke with a start, not because of another dream or because of the attacks on Isaac and Roland but with a sharp stab of guilt. Joan Willys was in Newgate awaiting trial. He must visit her. Katherine would have made sure she had sufficient to eat and drink and clothes to keep her warm but he should go and he would do so in the morning.

  At dawn, however, he was jolted awake by a persistent hammering on the door. Cursing the Earl of Warwick for sending a messenger at such an early hour, he struggled into the shirt and trousers discarded the night before and stumbled down the stair.

  ‘What can the noble earl want at this hour?’ he grumbled, opening the door. But the visitor was not whom he expected. ‘Oh, it is you,’ he said. ‘If you are looking for Ell Cole, she is not here.’

  Katherine pushed past him and into the house. ‘Joan has been moved,’ she told him. ‘She is in a crowded cell with a dozen others accused of murder and other felonies. I doubt she will last a day.’

  ‘Why was she moved?’

  ‘I do not know. The warden would not speak to me.’

  Christopher put on his coat. ‘I will come at once.’

  They walked in silence to Newgate. At the gate, Christopher gave his name and a coin to a guard. ‘Show us where the prisoner Joan Willys is kept,’ he ordered. ‘We must see her at once.’

  The coin did its job. With a torch to light the way, the guard escorted them inside the gaol and down the flight of steps to the lowest cells. At that time of the morning, there were usually bodies to be carried up and off to the burial ground at Moorfields or to await the arrival of a relative who might be prepared to spend money on a proper burial. On the steps they were forced to stand aside for a burly gaoler with the body of a woman over his shoulder. ‘One belly less to fill,’ he muttered. ‘Only four today. Must be feeding them too well.’

  The women’s cells lined a narrow passage leading off the main one. Here the cries were yet more pitiful, more terrible than those from the men’s cells. Each cell was crammed with prisoners, some lying, others sitting, a few standing at the bars, stretching out for succour as beggars might. ‘Take care not to venture too close,’ advised the gaoler. ‘If one gets her claws into you, you’ll be lucky to escape unharmed.’

  Christopher edged Katherine into the middle of the passage, out of reach of grasping hands. He had once read a pamphlet in which these cells were described as ‘body upon body, the air fetid and corrupt, each one awash with human waste, a hell from which it would be kinder to take the prisoners, guilty or not, and hang them at Tyburn’. It was a description that had stayed with him and it was no exaggeration.

  When they came to the last cell, the gaoler stopped and pointed into it. They strained their eyes into the gloom. What looked like a bundle of rags had been heaped in a corner. ‘Joan,’ called out Katherine, ‘are you there?’

  The bundle moved and Joan’s face peeked from under the rags. ‘In the devil’s name,’ screeched a voice, ‘keep your witch’s face hidden or you’ll be the death of us all. Show it again and you’ll feed the rats.’ Joan pulled the rags back over her face.

  Katherine tried again. ‘Joan, listen to me. You should not be here and we will soon have you moved. Dr Radcliff is here. You have nothing to fear. Say your prayers and God will watch over you.’

  The screeching voice was even louder. ‘God? What God? The God that has abandoned us to die here or on the scaffold? Or perhaps you mean the evil one, the devil.’

  Another voice spoke. ‘Aye. One man’s God is another’s Satan.’

  ‘She’s a witch, more than likely, with that face. Should have been smothered by the midwife.’

  ‘Won’t be pleading her belly. No judge would believe the bitch.’

  ‘Enough,’ shouted Christopher. ‘Joan Willys is under my protection. If any harm comes to her, every one of you will regret it.’ Beside him, the gaoler shuffled his feet. Christopher carried on before he could say anything. ‘Joan will be moved without delay. Until then, keep in mind what I have told you. Do her harm at your own peril.’ It was hard to tell how much effect his words had and in any event he doubted it would last long. They must get her out of this hellhole at once. He spoke to the gaoler. ‘Come, man, we will have words.’

  Outside, he turned on the man. ‘What outrage is this? We paid for the prisoner to be held in a better cell on the master’s side. Why has she been moved into that place?’

  ‘Price goes up for witches with the mark of the devil,’ gro
wled the gaoler. ‘Another two crowns if you want her out of there now.’

  ‘That is monstrous,’ said Katherine. ‘We will see her moved at once. Now.’

  The gaoler shook his head. ‘Victuals to be paid for and clean straw once a week. It’ll be two crowns to see her through to the sessions.’

  Katherine stared at him. ‘You will have a crown now and another in two weeks. And we will have full value for our coin.’

  The gaoler scratched at a pustule on his face and held out his hand. ‘Very well.’

  Katherine nodded. ‘A crown, Christopher, have you one?’

  He took five testons from his purse and handed them to the gaoler, who peered at them. ‘Funny money about,’ he grunted.

  ‘Go and fetch Joan Willys now and bring her up here. We will see her safely into a cell worth the money.’

  They waited in silence while the gaoler fetched her. Although the sky was grey, she blinked in the light. Katherine took her arm and the three of them followed the gaoler across the yard, through a door and along another passage to where Joan had been held until she was moved. She was put in a cell with only two other women, both of whom must have had the money or a benefactor with the money to pay for their comfort. They were clean and well enough dressed in smocks and gowns.

  This time it was Katherine who addressed the women. ‘For what crimes are you being held?’

  ‘They say I stole a purse, though I did not.’

  ‘And I am no doxy.’

  ‘Joan Willys is under my protection. See that she is well treated and you will be rewarded. If she is harmed, you too will be harmed. Is this clear?’

  The women glanced at each other and nodded. ‘Yes, mistress,’ replied one.