Burke blinked. ‘Not by me, sir. I can assure you.’
‘Aye, sold by you,’ Dowling said. ‘Delivered two days ago with a dead man inside it, belly full of wine and a cork in his throat.’
Burke opened his mouth and put his hands to his chin. He resembled an outraged washerwoman.
‘What have you been doing, Burke?’ the artist murmured. ‘I didn’t realise what a murderous beast you really are.’
‘None of it my doing,’ Burke protested. ‘Wharton cheated me, but what good is it to me he is dead? It will not get my money back.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Revenge? Once he persuaded you your money was gone.’
He held out his hands as if he expected me to tie them. ‘I have never killed a man, and if I did, would I kill him in my barrels, with my bottles?’
The artist sighed deeply and leant back upon his stool. ‘Burke did not kill Wharton, gentlemen. Surely that much is clear.’ He stretched and yawned. ‘You ought not have come here.’
I stepped forward to see what he painted. A large room, taller than ten men. A long gallery halfway up the wall and a man hanging by the neck.
‘What do you call it?’ I asked, mouth dry.
‘God’s Black Finger,’ he replied, cocking his head. ‘Do you not recognise it?’
‘I do,’ I nodded. ‘I recognise it very well, though I doubt the deed was God’s doing.’ I peered closer into the shadows of the gallery. Three men stood talking. ‘You were there?’
‘Not I.’ The artist selected a fine brush and began to colour the fine clothes of the man in the middle. My clothes. Dowling was recognisable besides, and a giant in a black cloak. The perspective was from the far wall, someone well hidden.
‘Then who?’
The artist laid down his brush and palette, and turned to me, mouth sad and regretful. ‘It matters not, Lytle. You should not have come.’
Dowling leant and placed his mouth against the artist’s ear. ‘What is your name?’
‘John Tanner,’ he answered. ‘As I don’t mind you knowing.’ He tidied his brushes. ‘For you will discover nothing else about me.’
His conceited arrogance pricked me hard. I drew back my hand and sent the brushes flying across the room. ‘Talk to us,’ I commanded. ‘Who do you work for?’
He raised his brow and watched a brush roll slowly towards the top of the stair. ‘I’ll not tell you that,’ he replied calmly. ‘Nor will he.’ He caught Burke’s attention for a moment, his slate-grey eyes steady and hard. ‘Leave now. While you can.’
Fury welled within, which he watched without a trace of fear, only curiosity. As though he planned to paint my portrait. I felt naked and exposed.
‘We will come back,’ I said through gritted teeth.
Tanner set to gathering his brushes from the floor. ‘I doubt it,’ he grunted. ‘Though should you prove me wrong, then I will be delighted to show you the finished painting.’ He stood straight and bowed. ‘Farewell, gentlemen.’
Dowling looked as frustrated as I, brow sunk over the bridge of his nose.
Tanner turned to Burke, who stood quaking by the easel. ‘You might as well go with them,’ he said, afore sitting back upon his stool. ‘You cannot stay here now.’ He dipped a brush and commenced painting once more, ignoring us all.
Burke watched him, uncertain what to do. He dithered a while, fidgeting, afore walking slowly over to the cot. He let himself fall upon it and lay on his back, head behind his hands.
We left.
‘What now?’ I exclaimed, as we scrambled back up towards the street.
‘All is not simple as it seems,’ said Dowling. ‘I will try and find out who John Tanner is, and those other two besides. Seems they know more about the murders than Burke does.’
‘Aye,’ I agreed, miserably. A simple assignment became complex. We emerged back onto Thames Street.
‘I have to buy a bell-rope,’ Dowling announced grim-faced. ‘I will meet you at dinnertime.’
‘I will go to the Willis house,’ I said, unable to think where else to go. I could not face Jane. ‘I will come to your house by eleven.’
Dowling gave a brief wave and was gone.
I walked slowly east. A heavy smoke drifted north on a wind off the river. I supposed the soap boilers and brewers still worked as busy as ever.
An arm draped itself about my shoulder. ‘Where are you headed, Harry?’ A handsome young face looked down upon me, twisted in complacent stone-eyed viciousness. He wore a beaver hat upon his head.
The older man appeared at my other shoulder, smiling broadly, dark eyes shining bright from beneath long lashes. ‘I am Forman, and this is Withypoll.’
I tried to look behind for Dowling, but they wouldn’t let me turn. The one with the fair hair, Withypoll, squeezed me so I hard I thought my shoulder would crack. ‘You followed us yesterday, you followed us today, yet you claim not to be a spy.’
Forman stopped at the door of The Three Cranes. ‘We want to talk to you.’
The Three Cranes tavern was a doghole. ‘Here?’
‘Yes, Harry, here.’ Forman shoved me forward. ‘We require only a few minutes of your valuable time.’
The folks in here were dirty and malodorous; dockers, sailors and lightermen mostly. We had been at war with the Dutch since March. The shipyards were busy and yet the King had not the money to pay. Everyone was in arrears. Men grew anxious and resentful, inclined to fight anyone that moved or spoke.
Forman pushed me ahead, straight into the barrel-chested taverner. A drip hung from the end of his red nose, which, I reflected, must occasionally fall into the drinks he served. He ran his eye over our fine clothes, face chiselled of stone.
‘Somewhere private to talk,’ Forman demanded.
The taverner nodded, silent, and hurried us through the inn. The noise reminded me of Bedlam.
‘You stare at me with that fishy eye and I will slice it for thee,’ Withypoll objected to a man who gawped. The taverner jostled the fellow out of our way and steered us towards a quiet room in the back. Withypoll shoved me into a corner and bid me sit. Wall to my right, wall to my back, table in front. Withypoll squeezed in to my left so I couldn’t move. Three mugs of cloudy ale arrived quickly upon the table, and we were left alone.
Forman settled himself opposite and showed his teeth. ‘Now we might talk.’
I took a sip of ale to relieve the dryness of my lips, afore remembering the drip on the taverner’s nose.
‘Did you meet John Tanner?’ Forman asked.
I knew not what to say.
Withypoll stabbed his blade into the table. ‘Forman asked you a question.’
Rage boiled up inside me. How did I allow myself to be so easily trapped? I stared into Forman’s fierce eyes. ‘Yes, I met John Tanner.’
‘Then you know where we planned to hide Burke.’
‘Who do you work for?’ I blurted out.
Forman blinked, and Withypoll chuckled noisily.
‘Lytle,’ Withypoll breathed into my ear. ‘No one was supposed to know Burke was staying with Tanner. It was a secret. Indeed, no one is supposed to know where Tanner lives.’
I sensed the violence lurking behind the toothy smile. ‘I am trying to find out who killed Thomas Wharton. Burke is the main suspect and so we followed him.’ I dared catch his eye a moment. ‘Not you, not John Tanner.’
Withypoll leant back, puffed out his chest, then exhaled deeply. ‘You need not worry who killed Thomas Wharton, Lytle, for we will discover that for ourselves. All we seek from you is confirmation you work for Lord Arlington.’
And what then? ‘Why should I tell you that when you tell me nothing?’
Withypoll pointed to his knife, still stuck upright in the table. ‘Because if you don’t tell me then I shall cut David Dowling’s throat.’
I clenched my fists, holding on to the last crumbs of courage. ‘It is no secret.’
‘I wonder why he chose you and the butcher,’ Withypoll mused, stroking
his chin. ‘Evidently he thought little of it, assumed Burke was guilty. Unless.’
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless Arlington arranged for Wharton’s death and appointed you two with the expectation you would see no further than the obvious.’ Withypoll turned to Forman. ‘What do you think?’
Forman stared. ‘I don’t know.’
‘He appointed us because his other agents have all fled London,’ I explained. ‘This is not the first investigation we have undertaken, and so he would have little reason to suppose we would not apply ourselves. What I don’t understand is why you would seek to prevent us. Perhaps you killed Wharton?’
‘Perhaps,’ Withypoll shrugged. ‘It is of little concern to you now, anyway. Finish your ale.’
I looked to my pot, almost full still. ‘I am not ready to leave.’
‘Aye, well ye had best prepare yourself.’ Forman lowered his arm beneath the table and pushed his knife into my thigh. ‘We must put you to death, Lytle, because now you know something you shouldn’t. It is not your fault, I own, but what has occurred, has occurred. We will walk you to the river since it will save us dragging you there.’
They watched me intently, gauging my reaction. I thought of shouting to the crowd outside but knew my plea would garner no response. The taverner would have warned all to leave us alone. This was ridiculous.
‘What is it I know?’
‘You know who Tanner is.’ Forman pushed the blade deeper.
My skin stretched beneath the knife. ‘Move him. Find him another place to live.’
Forman shook his head sadly. ‘No, Harry. You saw his face.’
I could think of nothing to respond. ‘Well, I am not walking to the river.’
‘I prefer to see a man die with dignity, Harry.’
‘I care not what you prefer.’ Terror and anger came together and threatened to make my eyes water. I determined they would not see it, sensed they watched for it, had seen it before. What would happen if I were to wrap myself about the table so they could not move me? Surely they would not kill me here in the tavern?
Withypoll inspected his fingertips. ‘If you don’t walk out of here, Forman will strike you hard, and we will carry out your prone body like we are friends. To the river.’
My bladder loosened.
Forman settled back. ‘Finish your ale quickly, Harry.’
I didn’t wish to drink the ale at all. My mind clouded with unholy fear and I could not recall my own name, let alone devise an ingenious plan to escape these villains. I thought to debate it further, but couldn’t find the words to start a sentence.
A door slammed. Hope lost. Footsteps. The door flung open.
‘Have I not warned ye of the perils of drink?’
I turned with lungs paralysed, unable to breathe. There before me the ugly face of Newgate’s noblest butcher. Behind him the taverner and two others.
Dowling stepped forward and cuffed Withypoll about the head, knocking his hat askew. ‘Aye, Harry, now let’s be going. We have work to do.’
Was he as lunatic as Franklin? It was madness to antagonise Withypoll – they would take their revenge. Yet he committed to it now. Despite my fear, it was all I could do not to laugh at the sight of Withypoll, hat fallen askew over one eye.
‘You are Dowling?’ he asked, voice almost a whisper.
‘David Dowling. Butcher.’
Withypoll nodded, straightening his hat. ‘I too am a butcher.’
‘I know it.’ Dowling pulled the knife from the table. ‘Perhaps we might form a guild?’
Withypoll smashed his fist down upon the table. ‘We are different categories of butcher, David Dowling.’
‘So I believe.’ Dowling turned his attention to Forman. ‘You might give me your knife too, else have your fingers broke.’
Forman shook his head. ‘You think we will not kill you, butcher?’
Dowling kept his left hand low, knife gripped hard. ‘Not today, you won’t.’
Forman sat still, contemplating the situation, afore standing slowly and smoothing the creases from his beautiful silk jacket. ‘I will keep my knife, Mr Dowling.’ He bowed his head afore eyeing the small crowd that watched, enthralled. ‘It has been a most enjoyable morning, gentlemen.’
Withypoll shuffled his feet, eyeing Forman with stubborn disagreement, contemplating Dowling like he would fight him on the spot.
‘Come, Withypoll, we shall renew acquaintance soon enough,’ Forman snapped, before walking out the door with purpose and a fury.
Withypoll followed, reluctant.
I felt reborn. A great calm descended upon my soul and I thought to kiss him. ‘You saved my life, Dowling.’
‘Aye, me and Robert.’
‘Robert?’
Dowling turned to the taverner. ‘Aye. He buys my meat.’
Still the drip hung from the taverner’s nose.
‘Thanks to ye, Rob.’ Dowling clapped him about the shoulder and looked at me, waiting.
‘Aye, thanks, Rob,’ I said sincerely.
Robert grunted, wiped his nose with the palm of his right hand and held it out for me to shake. Under the circumstances I could hardly refuse.
Chapter Ten
WHAT SHALL BE THE OCCASION OF HINDERING THE MARRIAGE
Consider what evil planet it is who does hinder the reception of the disposition of the man and woman, or who frustrates their aspect, or interjects his rays between them.
We headed east, my heart still brimming over with love and gratitude for the filthy butcher. It was past eight o’clock and people were out on the streets. Plague or no plague, they had to eat.
‘How did ye know to return?’
Dowling shook his head. ‘I was as slow-headed as you. I hadn’t reached halfway up the hill afore I realised they might have waited for us. I ran back and saw them trailing you, watched them take you.’
A great wave of emotion engulfed my chest, threatening to erupt out my eyes and mouth. ‘They wanted to take me to the river, cut me up.’
Dowling stepped to one side, avoiding an unsteady looking fellow with moist brow. ‘They may be trailing us still.’
Relief washed through my body and my hands trembled. I hadn’t realised how frightened I became. All in the service of finding out who killed a man whom no one loved, not even his wife. ‘What is the sense in all this, Davy?’ I asked, hearing my voice shake.
‘No sense that I can see,’ Dowling puffed, striding ahead. ‘Why do ye not take Jane to Cocksmouth as you planned? I will tell Newcourt of those two brutes, tell him to send soldiers after them.’
‘Go to Cocksmouth and watch my uncle slaughter pigs? Methinks not.’
‘Ye’d rather stay here and be slaughtered yourself?’ Dowling stopped on the corner of Bread Street. ‘As you said, where is the sense in that?’
Where indeed. Yet where was the sense in fleeing? I’d spent the last several years bemoaning the tedium of my life. Now someone waved a knife in my face I was tempted to run. It was time to prove my worth. I drew myself up to my full height and punched the butcher lightly in the kidneys. ‘Thank you, Davy.’
‘Thanks for what?’ he frowned.
‘For helping clarify my thoughts.’ I breathed easier. ‘And we have two avenues to explore. First, what’s happening at Bedlam. Second, find those four dogs Burke told us of, at Winchester Palace. They must know something.’
Dowling raised his brows. ‘Which first?’
‘Pateson,’ I decided. ‘For that should be quickest. I want to know why the keeper of Bedlam never visits, and what he knows of Edmund Franklin.’
‘Then we’d best find out where he lives,’ said Dowling. ‘Back to the Guildhall.’
Pateson lived at Bell Alley, just inside the city wall. There was no door to knock upon unless you cared to kneel down, for it was a split door and the top half was open.
Inside smelt like the burrow of a small furry animal. They sat within, a man and a woman, one either end of a small table, eating
from bowls in which floated lumps of gristle on a greasy soup. They put the gristle in their mouths, chewed it, then spat it back into the foul oily liquid.
‘Mr Pateson,’ I called.
Flat, yellow teeth protruded from his mouth and short, white whiskers covered his face. His body was short and round, back crooked. His wife was of similar build and appearance, though her face was less whiskery and a few brown strands still streaked her hair.
‘Who are you?’ she squeaked.
‘King’s agents, come to ask a few questions.’
Pateson huddled over his broth. ‘If it is so,’ he mumbled.
There was no other chair in the room and they did not invite us to enter. Dowling leant over the top of the door. ‘You are the keepers of Bedlam, are you not?’
‘Aye, keepers of Bedlam. A fine job,’ the woman spat, glaring at her husband. ‘Living among lunatics. No better than animals, most of them, and this one suggesting we live there with them.’
‘You would rather live here in this damp hole.’ Her husband glared back at her. ‘There we had brick walls, room to stretch a leg and a front door besides.’
‘If a man says a pile of bricks is a wall, then he might as well live in the open air and call the rain to land upon his face.’ She waved a hand dismissively, though I had no idea what she meant. ‘And there are more criminals there so as to make a front door a barrier, not an entrance.’
He buried his face in his bowl and peered out like he would happily strangle her. Seemed this was a conversation they enacted regularly. I opened my mouth, but Pateson spoke first. ‘It is a job, you flaky hag, and pays well.’
She leant back and wrinkled her nose. ‘Then get you back there.’
He gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles. ‘Aye, get me back there to work like a dog twice-over, while you sit here and do nothing and expect your share of the money, I’ll be bound.’
‘You do as you will. I can earn my own way. You just want someone to cook and clean for you and your lunatics, and know you’ll not find another as cheap as me.’
‘Aye, that be right,’ he sneered. ‘There be none as cheap as you.’
Now it was her turn to change colour. I was pleased to be at safe distance.
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