‘True enough, Mrs Henslowe, it was my idea,’ I ceded. ‘Surely his body was best buried quickly, and by his family. Yet we could not have taken the body to his house, for we might have infected the entire household.’ I looked around to see how my words landed. All gazed at the table except Marjory. ‘Were it not that James died as a consequence, then I would still say now it was the right thing to do.’
Marjory drew her arms to her side in straight-backed indignation. ‘The right thing to do, you say?’ She pursed her lips tight like a little dog’s arse. ‘Have you not read the Plague Orders?’
‘Aye,’ I replied. ‘The day they were issued. But this is not the abode of Nathaniel Hedges, so it cannot be said the infection stemmed from this house. Surely the sensible course was to remove him from the house as quickly as we could? Every moment the body stayed inside this house was to put at risk the life of each and every person who lives here.’
‘The Plague Orders make no such provision,’ Marjory said.
‘Some decisions a man must make for himself,’ I answered. ‘Those who have the wit.’
Marjory’s cheeks reddened. ‘So you oppose the practice of locking up the sick?’
‘They have been locking up houses in St Giles these last few weeks yet the sickness is not dissuaded.’
‘You would have the sick walk freely?’
‘The sick do walk freely, is what they say,’ I said with studied composure. ‘Some men paint their own doors with a cross, so the constables pay no attention and no watcher is appointed. Then they walk in and out without restraint.’
‘Yes, Mr Lytle.’ Marjory straightened her back. ‘And others remove the sick themselves before the examiners arrive.’
It seemed a futile discourse to me. If Marjory Henslowe really felt so passionate then she would not have come here to eat. I looked sideways at Liz, who glared at Marjory Henslowe with an intensity that would have sliced a softer woman’s throat.
Henslowe broke the silence, staring across at his wife with appalled anguish in his eyes. ‘Marjory?’
‘I’m sorry.’ She put her hands to her nose and mouth. She was frightened, and we all saw it.
Oliver Willis attempted to play the role of wise conciliator. ‘These are terrible days.’
I sipped a glass of wine and decided to change the subject to something more entertaining. ‘A time of great uncertainty,’ I agreed. ‘Which some men choose to exploit. Let me tell you of Owen Price.’ And so I related my conversation with the uncomfortable astrologist, determining to enjoy myself until able to confront Willis alone.
Marjory Henslowe straightened herself once more, and with hands upon her lap, met my eye severely. Too late I saw she blamed me for her earlier embarrassment and would see me suffer for it.
‘Mr Lytle,’ she began. My heart sank. ‘Astrology is a heathen philosophy, William Lilly is a heathen, and the astrologers should be severely punished for taking advantage of the fears of the weak. So.’ She paused for effect. ‘Why did you invite one of these creatures into your house?’ She said it with such sweet lips and steady eyes, I was pinned like a butterfly.
If Marjory Henslowe was a friend then I would have happily described the unusual circumstances of my household, but I didn’t feel disposed to subject Jane to the contempt of this preening shrew.
‘William Lilly is Orthodox Anglican,’ I answered at last. ‘The Lord is not constrained by astral determinism.’ Words so wise I hardly understood them myself.
‘That Lilly claims to be Orthodox Anglican does not make him so.’ She waggled a long finger in my direction. ‘Astrology is a magic, employing ritual and graven symbols. So it is ungodly and idolatrical.’
‘If God gave us an art, then the use of that art must be lawful,’ I argued, irritated by the finger in my face.
She lifted her chin and sought support from her husband. ‘I did not say it was an art.’
‘My dear, astrology is a science, it is an ancient science.’ He realised too late he spoke to her as though to a child.
Marjory Henslowe did not blink, yet the pink upon her ears said Phillip’s patronising tone shocked her. My heart sneezed. Little though I liked her, I would have to rescue her if normal conversation were to resume. Yet I could hardly start agreeing with her now, for that would be even more humiliating. Neither could I change the subject for it would be to same effect. She would have to fight her own corner. Unless they both left. Which would be humiliating for Oliver. He watched me from above the rim of his glass. I wished I had stayed away.
‘It is true many believe the scientific foundations of astrology to be valid and many use it to diagnose illness,’ Willis ventured carefully, eyeing Phillip Henslowe. ‘Yet others see it as a dying art, upheld only by the old and credible. Perhaps we are old, Henslowe, not attuned yet to the new philosophy.’
That wouldn’t work! I could feel Marjory Henslowe sink deeper into her chair without even having to look. ‘Methinks it is a matter of belief, not age,’ I declared impulsively.
Henslowe turned his clear eye upon me. ‘And what do you believe in?’ A mischievous question, for he well suspected the nature of mine own atheist beliefs.
‘I believe it is strange there is but one God, yet his intent is interpreted so diversely.’
‘Heathen words,’ Marjory declared, much to my relief, for I feared she had withdrawn for the evening. ‘If sinners entice thee, consent thou not!’ she exclaimed. She spoke with such passion I wondered what Henslowe had been telling her.
I was suitably chastised, a state of affairs that suited everyone, including me. The next hour passed cheerfully enough, though Willis appeared tense. I sensed my presence discomfited him, yet I determined not to leave before speaking to him alone.
As the sun descended behind the chimneys, Willis stood abruptly.
‘Phillip,’ he announced, smiling unconvincingly. ‘Would you drink a while with me? For I would discuss something of import.’
Henslowe opened his mouth and looked to his wife, reluctant perhaps to align himself once more agin her.
‘What about Harry?’ Liz admonished him, embarrassed by his rudeness.
‘Next time, Oliver.’ Henslowe held up a hand before standing himself. ‘I think we should leave afore it gets dark. Thank you for your hospitality.’
I stayed seated. Willis raised his brows, enquiring. I smiled for the benefit of the Henslowes. ‘I will drink with you, Oliver.’
He blinked. ‘I’ll say goodbye to Phillip and Marjory first.’
Henslowe shook my hand firmly, eyes berating me fondly. I pledged to visit him soon. Then I thanked Marjory Henslowe, who by now was warmly disposed towards me, convinced both that she bested me intellectually and that I humbly acknowledged it.
Oliver escorted them out.
‘What would you speak to my father about?’ Liz whispered.
I scratched my scalp and avoided her eye. ‘I cannot tell you.’
She crouched down and placed a delicate hand upon my knee. I stared into her bright green eyes and tried not to peek down at her chest. ‘What would you speak to my father about?’ she repeated. Her creamy lips curdled in a sour pout. She clenched her jaw and dug her nails into my thigh. I sensed her father kept a great secret, which she believed I might be privy to.
‘Ask him after we have spoken,’ I answered softly. ‘It is his story to tell, not mine.’
‘He will not be moved,’ she said. ‘I would have left weeks ago, but he will not be moved. If you know the reason why, Harry …’ She shivered.
I placed my hand on hers and attempted to loosen her fingers. ‘Let me talk to him, Liz.’
Oliver Willis entered the room and paused, waiting while Liz stood straight. He frowned, perplexed, while she withdrew, lines etched upon her forehead, eyes wet.
‘What would you drink, Harry?’ he asked, once she closed the door behind her.
‘I spoke to Henry Burke today,’ I said, watching his expression closely.
Willis fol
ded his arms. ‘You saw him?’
‘Aye, at Ludgate.’ I watched his twitching lips. ‘He doesn’t believe he is blamed for Wharton’s death, but I think Marjory Henslowe is right, I think Burke was arrested for his murder.’
Willis nodded slowly. ‘Would you have another cup of wine?’
‘No more wine,’ I replied. ‘Burke spent a lot of money on wine, at the behest of Thomas Wharton. Wharton kept the wine but didn’t pay for it.’
‘I heard,’ Willis whispered.
‘It was a significant transaction, Oliver. Burke needed others to invest, else he could not have afforded it.’
Willis clutched his arms tighter about his chest. ‘So they say.’
‘I heard you were the only one whom Burke could persuade.’
Willis raised his chin. ‘Burke told you?’
‘It matters not who told me,’ I replied. ‘You invested money at Burke’s behest, telling him these were funds you could easily afford, when in fact you could not. When Wharton reneged you must have been devastated. This is why you will not leave London. You prayed Burke might get his money back.’
Willis stared, unflinchingly.
‘Is that the truth of it?’ I asked.
Willis placed his hands on his hips and breathed slowly. ‘Listen to me, Lytle,’ he said. ‘I have treated you as a friend, allowed you to court my daughter. Now you descend upon me uninvited, you are rude to my guests, then pry into my affairs?’ His pale face turned puce. ‘It is too much to bear.’
‘Wharton is hanged in the Vintners’ Hall. One of his colleagues is discovered in a barrel, and another is weighted to the river bottom by another barrel.’ I pointed at his chest. ‘I am charged with discovering who killed them. Of course I ask you questions. Be grateful I come alone and not with a King’s guard.’
‘Grateful?’ he said. ‘Twice now you have dined here, once uninvited, and both times the evening has ended in disaster.’
Behind the fury I noted desperation and despondency. He was usually a steady fellow, stoic and unflappable. ‘You hoped to borrow funds,’ I realised. ‘That’s why you took such a risk in inviting a medic to your house. You had reason to believe he might help you. Henslowe too. You hoped it would be he who stayed behind afterwards to drink wine.’
‘Enough,’ he hissed, eyes wide, face bright scarlet. ‘Begone now, Lytle, and do not come back to my house. If you come within a hundred yards of my daughter again then I shall personally run my sword through your sticky heart!’
‘Very well.’ I feared his own sticky heart might be about to explode. ‘I will leave you, Oliver, but I hope you know what you are doing.’
He exhaled and stared at the floor. I walked out the door into the hall, where Liz waited.
‘What is going on?’ She stepped forwards to peer into the dining room. ‘What did you say to him?’
My little soul tremored afront of her rage. ‘You must ask him, Liz.’ I ducked my head and headed for the door.
Things were getting out of hand. It was time to call upon Newcourt for help.
Chapter Seventeen
OF AMBASSADORS OR MESSENGERS
For if he be in the tenth, and there dignified essentially, the ambassador will stand too much upon the honour of his own prince, and has an overweening conceit of his own abilities.
It was a strange experience travelling this road I once walked every day. I had not passed through the Lion’s Gate for more than a year. The familiar surrounds stirred residual feelings of dread, the prospect of another tedious day sorting old records. Whilst I had not actually been a prisoner here, still I thought of the Tower as my jail. I had been a clerk, working for the formidable William Prynne, he of cropped ears and the letters ‘S. L.’ branded into his face. He still lurked here, I assumed, somewhere within the walls of the Wakefield Tower.
Familiar yet different. In my time the guards and the soldiers were aimless and slovenly, often drunk and never diligent. Today though they presented smart and correct, every item of their dress pristine. Sentries checked our credentials with extraordinary diligence at the Bulwark Gate, the Lion’s Gate and the Byward Tower. Sir John Robinson, now commander of the Tower guard, was reckoned to be a fastidious tyrant with little tolerance for indiscipline or disorder.
‘Where is Newcourt?’ Dowling asked a guard beneath the Bloody Tower. ‘We hear he is come to meet Sir John.’
The guard jerked a thumb in the direction of the White Tower without saying a word nor moving a muscle of his face. I thought I recognised him, though it was difficult to be certain. They all appeared so elegant and clean.
I spotted Newcourt straightaway, lean and lithe, stood bowed with feet together in obsequious pose afront of an older-looking gentleman with stern eyes and imposing bulk. Sir John Robinson spoke with great intensity, chopping at the air with his arms and pointing at Newcourt’s chest, while the younger man nodded so hard I feared his head might fall off. Robinson finished his performance with a final flurry of barked instruction before marching off in the direction of the Lieutenant’s Lodgings.
‘Mr Newcourt!’ I called.
‘What do you want?’ he scowled, glaring miserably at the floor.
‘Lord Arlington said we should come to you if we need help or resource,’ I reminded him. ‘We are in need of both.’
Newcourt rubbed his hand across the surface of his pristine wig. ‘I have to go to Hampton Court,’ he muttered, hurrying back towards the Byward Tower.
Dowling clamped a giant paw upon his shoulder and pulled him back. ‘Will you listen to our request?’
Newcourt made a discreet attempt to free himself afore turning back. A faint tremble of his lips belied his anger and frustration. ‘Tell me quick,’ he snapped. ‘I am busy.’
‘We need money, but more important we need protection,’ I told him. ‘Men are trying to kill us.’
He dug into his jacket. ‘How much money do you need?’
‘I have spent nearly two pounds already,’ I said. ‘In less than a week.’
He pulled out some coins. ‘Here is a pound, thereabouts. The rest I will reimburse you next time we meet. What else?’
‘Two men have tried to kill me, two others tortured him.’ I pointed to Dowling’s bandaged thumb.
Newcourt shrugged, impatient.
‘Can you not borrow some soldiers from Sir John?’ I asked. ‘We can tell you who to arrest.’
‘Listen.’ He drew himself up straight. ‘Sir John demands yet more funds to extend the pesthouse at Stepney. He wants to buy more land about the Cripplegate Pesthouse, and he wants to extend the garrison so as to be able to properly monitor the activities of the dissenters.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘I am not about to ask him for soldiers to protect you from a few ruffians.’
‘I am not talking about ruffians,’ I protested. ‘I am talking of two men who seem to be working for Lord Chelwood, and two of Wharton’s old entourage whose profession includes torment and abuse.’
‘Lord Chelwood?’ Newcourt blinked. ‘What has he to do with Wharton’s death?’
‘He has some connection with Burke is all we know,’ I said. ‘And his men tried to kill me after I followed Burke to the house of John Tanner.’
‘Who is John Tanner?’
‘We don’t know.’
Newcourt stared over my shoulder, deep in thought. ‘Wharton’s entourage. You speak of the four men who call themselves after the Four Horsemen?’
‘Yes.’
‘You found two dead, I understand,’ he said.
‘Two dead, aye, and two remain alive. They seem to think Lord Arlington is responsible for the death of Wharton, he or some cleric …’ I struggled to recall the name.
‘William Perkins,’ Dowling helped me.
‘You have discovered more than I thought you capable.’ Newcourt glanced at me briefly. ‘I will see you again when I return. Meantime you must manage alone.’ He placed a hand on my shoulder, surprisingly tender. ‘For there are ungodly men, turning the g
race of our God into lasciviousness, denying the only Lord God, and our Lord Jesus Christ.’
‘Amen,’ Dowling echoed.
I was trapped between zealots. I preferred Newcourt the mean-minded incompetent.
‘A fine fellow,’ Dowling pronounced, watching Newcourt disappear.
Fine fellow or not, he reminded me we had yet to pursue the ranting cleric. I looked up at Dowling and wondered why he hadn’t thought of it either. ‘He told us nothing, promised us nothing and gave me but a pound.’
‘If Forman and Withypoll work for Lord Chelwood, then Lord Arlington cannot arrest them,’ Dowling said. ‘Not without more evidence.’
‘Who is this William Perkins?’
Dowling avoided my gaze. ‘He works for the Bishop of London, Humphrey Henchman. He is devoted to driving dissenters out of the city.’
‘Why do Wharton’s dogs think Perkins may have killed Thomas Wharton?’
‘They asked what we had discovered of him, they did not say they thought he killed him.’
‘You remember the conversation well,’ I noted. ‘Yet you seem to hold little enthusiasm for seeking Perkins out.’
‘Harry, did you not hear me?’ Dowling stopped beneath the arch of the Middle Tower. ‘Perkins is a close associate of the Bishop of London. The Bishop is close to the King, worked hard for his return. He is loyal to the Crown. The Bishop of London would not murder nobility, nor sanction it.’
‘Yet Perkins had some relation to the Earl of St Albans,’ I pointed out, unmoved. ‘Else why would War ask us what we discovered?’
‘So what would you do, Harry? Arrest the Bishop?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Just ask questions and become a great nuisance. Same as always.’
‘And always you end up with your head broken or locked up in a jail somewhere.’ Dowling raised his voice, unlike him. ‘Which surely will be the case if you embark upon a hare-brained, ill-considered holy siege!’
‘Then you must come with me,’ I reasoned. ‘And save me from myself, as is your wont.’
A Plague of Sinners Page 16