A Plague of Sinners

by Paul Lawrence

  ‘How often do you visit the place?’ I asked, taking advantage of the lull in proceedings.

  There was no reply, just the sound of deep breathing as they sat staring at each other in furious contemplation.

  ‘You have not been there for a while,’ I said.

  Pateson’s gaze returned to the greasy broth. ‘You visited then?’

  I sensed his fear. ‘We have no interest in your stipend, Mr Pateson. That is no affair of ours.’

  ‘What do you want then?’ asked his wife.

  ‘The Earl of St Albans was murdered on Lord’s Day. His brother sits inside your asylum and we would know what you can tell us of them.’

  Pateson stared blankly. ‘The Earl of St Albans?’

  ‘Did he visit Franklin?’

  ‘Franklin? None visit Franklin. He is a dangerous lunatic. He will bite pieces out of you. It is why we keep him on his own.’

  My stomach sunk towards my groin as I recalled our own visit. The fear upon Daniel’s face. The way he sat with his back to us while we talked with Franklin. ‘Morrison allowed us to approach the bars.’

  Pateson scrunched up his furry face in perplexed bewilderment. ‘Morrison did?’

  Dowling cleared his throat. ‘We were told the Earl’s brother is an inmate and Morrison directed us at Franklin.’

  Pateson stared down at the bottom half of the door. ‘Really?’ His brows knit together so low and close you could not see his eyes. ‘I don’t see how Morrison could know.’ He looked me in the eye, curious. ‘Franklin is the wildest lunatic in the asylum. We have had him locked up twenty years.’ He shook his head and smiled cautiously. ‘None know where Franklin comes from since he is incapable of telling us, but he is not related to nobility.’

  ‘When were you last there?’ I asked.

  ‘A month ago. Morrison and Gallagher are able,’ he replied, defensive.

  ‘Gallagher?’

  ‘Hugh Gallagher,’ his wife answered. ‘Cruel to the lunatics and doesn’t mind provoking them to anger.’

  ‘Gallagher was not there when we visited,’ I said. ‘Morrison said he was sickly. Said he carried the only key to the vestry.’

  Pateson frowned. ‘Who was there beside Morrison?’

  ‘A young man with ginger hair,’ I told him. ‘The two of them stood on the doorstep drinking wine. The place stank like a cesspool.’

  ‘It always stinks like a cesspool,’ said the wife. ‘It is another reason I will not abide there. Dirty and unclean. You would have to be mad to go close to it with plague about.’ This place seemed dirtier to me.

  I watched Pateson hide his face in his hands.

  ‘Someone has to tend them,’ I said. ‘You cannot leave two men alone to tend sixty lunatics, especially if they neglect their duties. Why do you not visit? You don’t have to live there to ensure the place is cared for.’

  ‘He cannot,’ his wife sneered. ‘He is paid coin to keep away.’

  ‘Who pays coin?’ Dowling growled.

  ‘Morrison,’ she replied.

  Pateson raised his head, face scarlet, fists clenched, eyes fixed upon his wife.

  ‘Generous of him,’ I observed.

  ‘I don’t know why he did it,’ Pateson mumbled. ‘They didn’t tell me, just paid me coin to stay away. Then after we shook hands Morrison threatened me with death should I set foot in the place again.’

  ‘Morrison?’ The same short avuncular Morrison we met?

  ‘He may be little to look at, but he is a demon.’

  ‘How long has he worked with you?’

  ‘Three months. Gallagher recommended him. He was sober and confident and well able to deal with the lunatics, at least when I was there. He worked with us a while, then made me the offer.’

  ‘Did he not say then why he made it?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It was a lot of coin,’ his wife remarked.

  ‘Aye,’ he conceded, ‘it was a lot of coin. And he made a generous first payment.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I returned to see what state the place was in, for I did not desire to lose my tenure in case the inspectors arrived. He calmly assured me he would keep the place in order, but refused me the right to walk around. When I insisted, he took me into my own office and held me down with his arm across my throat. He said it was his facility to run so long as he desired, and he would keep paying me. But if I returned or revealed our arrangement, then he would kill me.’ Pateson mopped his brow. ‘As if I would reveal it! But later he and Gallagher came here.’

  ‘Aye,’ his wife snorted. ‘And what did they do?’ He stared at the table, but did not reply. Hate emanated from her eyes. ‘Tell them.’

  ‘They made her remove her clothes and threatened her with a knife.’

  ‘They removed my clothes for me and held a knife to my breast and said they would cut it off if ever again he returned,’ she jeered.

  ‘I could do nothing,’ he said to the table.

  ‘He has always been afraid of Gallagher.’

  ‘I am no more afraid of Gallagher than I am of the lunatics,’ Pateson retorted. ‘I suspected he might be becoming lunatic himself, the way he behaved. A consequence of working in the place too many years. So I treated him with caution.’

  ‘You are a great coward,’ she sneered.

  ‘And you are a bucket head that divorces thyself of all responsibility.’

  It made no sense. ‘So you say Franklin has no relatives, yet Morrison says otherwise.’

  ‘I have been there longer than Morrison.’

  ‘What else can you tell us of Franklin?’ I asked.

  ‘If you saw him for yourselves I can tell you little else I have not told you already.’ Pateson curled his lip. ‘They say he was driven to madness by the pox, since when he has been lunatic.’

  Which did make sense. The deformity of the child we saw at St Albans might well have been caused by pox. But what of Franklin himself? ‘If Franklin was poxed I would have expected to see more signs of it.’

  ‘What signs would you seek?’ Pateson watched me, wary. ‘Did he not look poxed to you?’

  Truth was I recalled no sign of the pox whatever. I looked to Dowling, who appeared as mystified as I.

  ‘His face is pitted and scarred,’ Pateson said, observing our mystification.

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t recall it.’

  Pateson’s wife tapped a finger on the table. ‘Gallagher was a mean-spirited cur who would slice his mother’s throat for a pipe of tobacco.’

  ‘Aye,’ Pateson nodded fervently, relieved to be able to agree with her, but I no longer listened.

  We should go back to Bedlam, I realised, and put this little mystery to bed. Not today, though. The sun shone too hot to risk a visit north of the wall. Today to the Bishop of Winchester’s palace at Southwark. I tapped Dowling upon the shoulder and we left Pateson and his wife to finish their intimate dinner in private.

  Chapter Eleven

  OF THE GOODNESS OR THE BADNESS OF THE LAND OR HOUSE

  If you find in the fourth house the two infortunes, very potent, or peregrine, or if the Lord of the fourth be retrograde or unfortunate, or in his fall or detriment, ’twill never continue long with your posterity.

  Carts and wagons jammed the bridge tight, loaded high with essential possessions. The procession reached as high as the crossroads ’twixt Fish Street Hill and Eastcheap, almost to the door of the Boar’s Head. We burrowed through the crowds, shoving when we needed to.

  ‘You think ye are the King?’ shouted a man sat upon a stationary cart. He glared at me then spat on the ground.

  ‘I am a King’s man.’ I stabbed a finger at him. ‘Spit on me again and I’ll smooth your passage to Newgate.’

  I prayed we would not get stuck long enough to incite a riot, but the wall of people ahead of us loomed solid and unbreachable, no room to stick out an elbow. Dowling peered over the top.

  ‘Albemarle’s men are preventing passage,�
� he called. ‘Hold onto my coat.’ He propelled himself the last few yards like a cleaver slicing meat.

  A flustered soldier blocked our progress, struggling to keep his balance. He banged his pike upon the cobbles. ‘You cannot cross the bridge this morning,’ he shouted above the din.

  ‘We are King’s men,’ I yelled back. ‘On King’s errand.’

  ‘No matter.’ The sentry clattered his pike into the face of a man who pressed too hard. ‘A cart lost its wheel and cannot be moved nor mended. As you can see, there be no room for a carpenter to reach it.’

  ‘Then we will walk past it.’ I nudged him.

  ‘Aye, if ye have all day to do it. Then you might reach the Square. Beyond the Square there is no hope for any without a fine pair of wings.’ The Square was a wide open space that sucked the traffic in, yet blocked its passage out.

  Ahead red faces stretched upwards, searching for breath. Men held children to their chests and tried to shield their women. The sentry spoke truth. I twisted myself about and pushed back the way we came, escaping the frantic congregation.

  ‘To the river then,’ I suggested, smoothing the creases in my jacket.

  ‘If you have the funds,’ Dowling growled.

  ‘I do,’ I owned with sinking heart. It would cost us at least five shillings to cross the river and another five to return.

  Boats covered the water, a vast flotilla of wherries, old ferries and naval longboats, all dressed with canvas and waxed cloth to protect from sun and rain. These citizens took to the river to wait out the plague’s tempest. Ferrymen were obliged to negotiate a winding path, for if you ventured too close to one of these vessels, you risked attack. Some of these people floated a month or more already, a way of living that invited madness.

  Fat drops of rain started to fall before we reached halfway and thick, grey clouds swept across the skies, exposing us to a chill, sodden breeze. I wished we went to Bedlam instead. The boatman strained hard and got us to St Mary Overy Stairs before the water penetrated to my drawers.

  We ran up the stairs, towering brick buildings on either side, across Clink Street, to shelter beneath Stoney Street arch, one entrance to Winchester Palace. The rain poured down in a single sheet, battering the cobbles in relentless assault.

  ‘The well house is as good a place as any,’ I shouted above the noise.

  We pushed through the door next to which we shivered. The well house nestled this side of the great hall. Wooden pipes carried water from the river to the cellars beneath us. The well had once supplied the kitchens, afore the palace was deserted forty years before and broken up into tenements. Now any man might buy water here.

  A short, stout woman waited within, next to the well. ‘Raining?’ she asked, sharp eyes watching the water drip from our sodden clothes.

  ‘Raining,’ I confirmed.

  ‘You come in for shelter then?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, we also hoped you might direct us.’

  The woman stuck out her jaw and scratched her head. ‘Where would ye like me to direct you?’

  ‘We’re looking for four men.’

  She shrugged. ‘I could point you in any direction and you’ll find four men eventually.’

  ‘Four particular men,’ I clarified. ‘We know them only as black dogs. Friends to the Earl of St Albans.’

  ‘Him what is dead.’ She nodded. ‘I know who you refer to, and if you are wise ye will not call them black dogs.’

  ‘What then should I call them?’

  ‘Call them what ye will, but I should not call them dogs.’

  I calmed the impatience within. ‘Where might we find them?’

  ‘The Cock and Two Hoops,’ she replied.

  Stoney Street led us west of the old palace through Deadman’s Place. What was once a great garden now decayed into a straggling mess of unsteady wooden cottages. A channel was cut for a sewer, heading back down towards the river, but the land ran flat, the ditch was clogged and the air stank. The rain drummed a steady beat upon my head, trickling down my neck in cold rivulets. We hurried through the shadows of the stone walls until we reached the tavern.

  All conversation stopped when we entered. Five tables spread about the dark and dingy room, each occupied by five or six men. We sat at a space at the end of the table closest to the door. A wench brought two mugs of ale without asking what we wanted. I tried to engage her in conversation, but she ignored me, so I went in search of someone who might tell us more, leaving Dowling at the table.

  ‘Will you talk to me?’ I asked a fellow who stood holding a brush, watching from a passageway.

  He squinted and showed me his teeth. ‘About what?’

  ‘I am looking for the four men who worked close with the Earl of St Albans.’

  ‘What for?’ he said with disdain.

  ‘We need to talk with them.’

  ‘I will fetch them if you like.’ He placed the brush against the wall and disappeared into the gloom behind.

  I followed tentatively. Three small rooms branched off the corridor, each of them piled high with rubbish. At the end of the corridor a door led out towards the cathedral, stood ajar. The fellow was gone into the downpour. I returned to Dowling and we settled to bide our time. Conversation about us resumed, though quieter than before.

  The door opened again, the cacophony of rain against cobbles drowning out all other sounds until the man closed it behind him. He stood dripping, black jacket drenched and heavy, wide-brimmed hat sodden and misshapen. A sword protruded behind his legs. He tipped off his hat and threw it to the table, revealing the same bony face we saw before at the Vintners’ Hall.

  He removed his coat and straddled a chair, adjusting the sword so it swung free to his right. ‘Lord Arlington sent you here, did he? How did you know where to come?’

  ‘We were sent in search of four black dogs.’ I remembered too late the well house woman’s advice.

  ‘Dogs, you say?’ He spoke with soft tone and stony intent.

  ‘Know ye who these four dogs might be?’ Dowling asked in his soft Scots brogue.

  The man’s blue eyes shone hard as sapphire and the skin of his face gleamed, thick as tanned leather. ‘Call me a dog again, cur, and I shall kill you where you sit.’

  ‘I didn’t call you dog.’ Dowling folded his arms and stuck out his chest. ‘Others did.’

  ‘No matter.’ The giant smiled broadly, revealing an enormous mouth full of big, yellow teeth. ‘You are here now and we must share with you our hospitality.’ He tapped the table with thick forefinger. ‘Come! And I will introduce you to the other dogs.’ He jumped to his feet and donned his watery clothes once more.

  ‘Is it far?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he beckoned us, impatient. ‘Five minutes’ walk.’

  We followed him back into the deluge, Dowling as anxious as I. He headed back towards Clink Street, rather than towards the slums on St Margaret’s Hill, and soon we were back at the well house. He waved an arm west down the street towards The James Brewhouse. ‘Here we are.’

  Two more men stepped out onto the wet cobbles from a doorway to our left. They too wore black cloaks and breeches. The rain fell heavy as slate and I couldn’t make out their faces.

  ‘War,’ called one.

  ‘Pestilence,’ our man shouted back to him, and ‘Famine,’ to the other.

  What code was this?

  ‘Come.’ Our man took me by the elbow and directed me to a low archway.

  ‘The Clink?’ I thought the Clink was closed up years ago. I tried to jerk my arm from his grasp and dig my heels into the slippery cobbles, succeeding only in falling back into his arms. There was no one to call to, none who might help. The other two took Dowling by the arms, forcing him down the steep stone stairs.

  They dragged us down into a dark, dank hole, tiny streams flowing from the black walls. They said the river ran through it when the tide was high. I felt more frightened than ever afore in my life, for what motive could there be to haul us down here?r />
  Torches lit the way ahead from holders on the walls, creating black shadows in which lurked all manner of creeping insect. Quiet squeaking somewhere far ahead, a nest of mice or rats. We were the only prisoners.

  They jostled us forward, ever deeper. The last torch signalled our destination, a small, square cell with low stone bench and chains about the floor, connected to four rings set into the wall. They flung us towards the bench and forced us to sit, then one of them fitted manacles to our ankles. Dowling attempted to resist, but even he was helpless against these great behemoths. They stood before us, admiring their handiwork, afore carrying away the last torch. The last thing I saw before the light died was a large cockroach creeping across the floor towards my feet.

  ‘Will they come back, do you think?’ I whispered, barely able to speak.

  Dowling reached over to grasp my hand. ‘Have faith in God.’

  Have faith in God to do what? If he was happy to send us plague, why should he save us from Clink? I sat frozen, listening intent. All I could hear was the air rolling noisily in and out of Dowling’s nostrils. None would think to search for us here. If they left us, we would die. Perhaps that was their objective then, to play upon our fears, to destroy our spirit. I took a deep, gulping breath and clung to the thought. Dowling started muttering beneath his breath, reciting passages from the Bible. Thank God he was there with me. Every second, every minute, I struggled to maintain my emotions. Refused myself permission to consider we might never leave. So when eventually I heard footsteps it felt like I lived again, joy abounded in my heart and seeped out my eyes. I rubbed a hand against my wet cheeks.

  The man with the craggy face appeared, torch in hand, his companions behind. ‘You may call me War,’ he declared. ‘These you may call Famine and Pestilence.’

  Horsemen of the Apocalypse? A vain pretension, but where was Death?

  ‘You went to The Bull Head last night,’ War said, as if it were a sin.

  ‘We were summoned.’

  ‘You pulled a man out of a barrel,’ Famine said, sharp brown eyes belying the fleshiness of his face. ‘That was Death.’