‘So be it,’ Dowling growled. ‘We will go and talk to a friend of mine. Better than going straight to the Bishop and ending up charged with heresy.’
‘And if my aunt was a man she’d be my uncle,’ I retorted. ‘Let’s visit this friend of yours now, then. Where does he live?’
‘George Boddington is the rector at St James Garlickhythe.’ Dowling led us through Petty Wales. ‘A serious man who I will thank ye not to offend.’
‘I can promise not to offend,’ I said. ‘Though I cannot promise you he will not be offended.’
Dowling glared as though he would happily break my neck, and so I walked in silence.
St James Garlickhythe was a vintners’ church, just across the street from the Vintners’ Hall on Thames Street. Inside was dark and silent. Dowling led us down the aisle, footsteps echoing loud.
‘Your friend Boddington is still here, or has he fled like all the others?’ I whispered.
Dowling stopped in front of a large gravestone, laid into the floor. Engraved upon it was the figure of a man, broad shouldered and tall, curly-haired, with a little forked beard.
A short figure strode to meet us. ‘I am still here, and I am staying here,’ a deep voice boomed. He pointed at the figure on upon the ground. ‘That is Richard Lyons, once Sheriff of London and master to Wat Tyler. Tyler was an evil man who came back to chop off his head and parade it about London on the end of a spear.’
‘Lyons was a tyrant then?’
‘Lyons was a great man,’ Boddington replied, authoritatively. ‘Tyler was insane, an agent of the Devil.’
Since Boddington invited no debate, and Dowling’s beady eyes stuck to me like glue, I passed no further comment.
‘Woe to the idol shepherd that leaveth the flock,’ Boddington announced, looking at me. ‘The sword shall be upon his arm, and upon his right eye. His arm shall be clean dried up, and his right eye shall be utterly darkened!’ He didn’t seem to like me much.
Dowling sighed. He stuck out his hand in greeting, whereupon Boddington seized it and pumped it up and down as if he expected water to gush forth from the butcher’s mouth.
‘You are well, George?’
‘God watches over me.’ Boddington waved a hand. ‘Come to the vestry and we will talk.’ He turned on his heel without waiting for response and led us towards the back of the church into a gloomy little room.
Boddington lowered himself into a large, wooden throne, like God Himself, while we sat upon smaller chairs afore him. Upon the arms of the chair, and about the back of it, were carved little scallop shells, like those the pilgrims fetched home from the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela, where St James lay buried.
‘This is Harry Lytle.’ Dowling held out his palm as if I were a foreign object to stare at and scrutinise. ‘He works at the Guildhall under the eye of Sir Thomas Player.’
‘A worthy occupation.’ Boddington crossed his legs. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘We seek your advice, George,’ said Dowling.
‘Advice?’ Boddington sounded wary. ‘Many men seek advice these days. I give them all the same answer; thou shalt worship no other god but the Lord, whose name is Jealous, who is a jealous God.’
‘Aye, so,’ Dowling nodded. ‘The advice we seek is more specific.’
Boddington twitched his nose.
‘We are investigating the death of Thomas Wharton.’ Dowling spoke low. ‘We found him on Monday.’
Boddington’s eyes widened. ‘How so it was you that found him?’
Dowling shuffled slightly. ‘We work for Lord Arlington. He instructed us to investigate.’
‘Great is the mystery of godliness.’ Boddington clasped his hands together. ‘Men have talked of little else since that night. I heard rumour of what they found, a tale so wicked I can scarce believe it. Will you confirm it to me?’
‘We found him hanging by his neck,’ I replied. ‘Whoever killed him pressed coins in his eyes and pushed a wine bottle down his throat.’
Boddington leant forward. ‘He was naked?’
‘Naked,’ I confirmed.
‘And the beast carved out the seventy-fifth psalm upon his back.’ Boddington held his fingers to his lips. ‘For in the hand of the Lord there is a cup, and the wine is red. It is full of mixture; and he poureth out of the same. But the dregs thereof, all the wicked of the earth shall wring them out, and drink them.’
‘It would have taken the murderer half the night to carve that upon a man’s back,’ I pointed out.
Boddington scowled. ‘So it is not true?’
‘No, it’s not true,’ I said. ‘What is true is that William Perkins had some business with Thomas Wharton. We would find out what that business was.’
Boddington pushed himself back into his great chair. ‘William Perkins?’
‘Aye, William Perkins.’ Dowling reached out a hand to silence me. ‘Wharton had four colleagues, though we are not sure what they all did together. One inferred that Perkins was known to Wharton, had some kind of business with him.’
‘William Perkins is a devout fellow and labours long and hard in God’s ministry,’ Boddington replied, furious. ‘He a passionate fellow and would not shirk from confronting evil. What do you imply?’
‘We imply nothing, George,’ Dowling said, ‘nor doubt his purpose, but we don’t know what that purpose was. He may be a player in these events, albeit innocent and pure.’
Boddington’s arms relaxed. ‘As I told you, he is a passionate fellow. His purpose these days is same as all of us. To bolster the courage of those who think of fleeing. Every church deserted is occupied by a dissenter. By our temerity we betray our own faith.’
Dowling bowed his head solemnly. ‘Just so.’
‘Meantime the Quakers swarm about Westminster, knocking on doors and shutting themselves up with the sick to administer comfort.’
‘God will dispose of us as He wishes, according to his plans,’ Dowling agreed earnestly.
Which was all too much for me to stomach. What kind of God sought to torture his people so cruelly, that many now died of grief? What kind of God favoured the rich and wealthy above the poor and doughty?
‘What then was Perkins’ purpose before the plague?’ I demanded. ‘What of his involvement with Wharton then?’
‘I cannot tell you for certain.’ Boddington spoke slowly and hesitantly. ‘Though Wharton was an evil man, suspected of nefarious deeds.’
‘What nefarious deeds?’
‘You might talk to Perkins yourself,’ said Boddington. ‘For I heard only tales. If Wharton’s colleagues speak of Perkins, then it can only be that he persecuted them with just cause.’
‘What tales did you hear?’
‘As I said,’ Boddington snapped. ‘You might talk to Perkins yourself.’
‘Then you don’t believe Perkins might have killed Thomas Wharton?’ I thought aloud. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord?’
Boddington’s head snapped about like an angry chicken. ‘Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.’ He stared at me as if I was a spirit to be cast out. ‘Whoever killed Thomas Wharton is a devil, and William Perkins is no devil. Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the Devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’
I did not appreciate being lectured at by righteous clerics. ‘Someone did it, and there are devils in the clergy as there are in all places.’
‘Get ye gone!’ Boddington proclaimed, face suffused with scarlet blood. ‘And take your devilry with thee!’
Dowling glared at me with similar ruddy cheeks. I feared I had offended him after all and so went to wait outside.
Strange how these godly men so quickly became anxious. Wasn’t the Lord supposed to rejoice over them with joy, and joy over them with singing? Where was all the joy gone?
Chapter Eighteen
OF A BROTHER THAT IS ABSENT
If they behold him with the aforesaid aspects, and be in reception,
the brother is in great distress, but he will with ease evade it, and free himself from his present sad condition.
Since Dowling wasn’t talking to me I had plenty of time to think during the walk up to Cheapside. We now had two lords and a bishop involved, as well as a couple of murderous torturers. Everyone we met stayed tight-lipped. All had the same tendency to stare off into the distance at critical stages of the conversation, and tell us nothing. We skirted the heart of this black affair, still to win a glimpse of the essence of it. The only intelligence given freely came from the gravedigger at St Albans, he who directed us to Bedlam.
And what of that? What was the significance of Pateson’s testimony? We were told two days ago that Morrison paid to keep him away, yet still hadn’t followed up. Now was as good a time.
‘Bedlam!’ I declared, striding north. ‘Let’s find out what Morrison and Gallagher have to say for themselves.’
Dowling muttered some dark utterance, but followed anyway. Unlikely he would talk to me again this day. A blessed relief.
Crowds thronged at Bishopsgate. Not to get out, but to get in, for the plague worsened in that parish by the day. The happy sun, shining bright in cloudless sky, sustained the sickness with a force that allowed it to multiply. The hotter the earth baked beneath our feet, the greater the poison rose, unseen and merciless. I thought again of Jane, determining to visit her before the day was out.
The spikes above the gate displayed only one rotten head, tattered, torn and peeling. Beyond spread a wasteland of disease and death. Only the watchers roamed with intent, now beholden to guard several houses at a time.
Bedlam was but a few yards up Bishopsgate Street. The air bloomed foul from behind the Bedlam gate. The great cesspit had not been emptied for several years, and on days like today, sun blazing, the smell hung in a steaming fog. Flies settled upon my jacket even as I walked, buzzed about my nose and mouth, occasionally touching the inside of my nose, cold and disgusting. I maintained a steady breath of air outwards as we crossed the courtyard.
The small anteroom was empty. None lingered, none drank wine. We made our own way down the dark gloomy passage towards the cells, lamentations echoing from beyond the open doorway. We stopped upon the threshold, listening for any sign of attendance, reluctant to call out or step further unaccompanied.
‘Oddfish,’ I remarked.
Dowling whispered behind me. ‘Since there is none here, I might have a look at the office.’ He hurried back the way we came. ‘I want to see their records.’
The office was bright and square, with one large window looking out onto the bleak landscape out front. Three panes were missing and two were cracked. Stacks of paper covered a large desk, piles flowing onto piles in an unholy mess that would take weeks to sort.
Dowling shuffled a handful of notes. ‘They have not been paying their bills.’ He continued poking. ‘I would find the register. They must have it in case they’re inspected.’
He cleared a space by his feet and began shifting paper from desk to floor, excavating for whatever lay beneath. I cleared a chair of debris, sat down and opened the top drawer. There sat a large, blue leather-bound book. I pushed a pile of paper onto the floor to make space for it. Dowling was at my shoulder before I could open the front cover. He quickly turned the pages. A neat spidery hand covered each one, filling five columns a page. In the first column a number, in the second column a name, in the third the date of admission, in the fourth the date of discharge and in the fifth were writ comments, usually a description of the inmate and his symptoms.
‘The last entry was made two months ago.’ Dowling stabbed a finger upon the last written page. He ran his finger fast back up the column of names, surprising me how fast he could read. ‘This place is Pateson’s life and blood. If men are unaccounted for, then he will be punished.’
‘What are you doing in here?’ a voice demanded. The ginger man stood at the door, the man we had met before, with hair like a carrot. ‘You shouldn’t be in here without Morrison.’
‘Where is Morrison?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him.’ He frowned. ‘Neither Daniel nor Franklin has been fed neither.’ He surveyed the room then pointed to a hook. ‘Yet he has left his keys behind, which is peculiar, since he never takes them off his belt.’
‘So now you must feed Daniel and Franklin.’ Dowling walked over to retrieve the heavy ring.
The ginger man shook his head. ‘Not I. I would not go near Franklin if you paid me. He is a savage beast. No man is safe even close to his cell. He grabbed a fellow by the neck last year and near pulled his ear off.’
‘Someone must feed them,’ I said. ‘We will come with you.’
‘We cannot go to the vestry without Morrison,’ the ginger man protested. ‘He ordered it.’
‘Yet Morrison is not here,’ I pointed out. ‘What of Gallagher? Can he not feed them?’
‘Gallagher has not been here since Monday,’ the ginger man exclaimed. ‘I’m on my own it seems.’ He scratched at his scabby scalp and clicked his tongue. ‘Morrison has been gone three, four hours.’ He fidgeted and looked to the front door. ‘He never said he was going any place.’
Something was wrong. ‘Come.’ I grabbed the keys and led the way. I walked the passageway betwixt the cells without looking left nor right, and skipped through the Abraham Ward afore the thin man could tap me on the shoulder. The vestry door was the first one we found locked.
The ginger man leant over my arm and pointed at a small dark key sat snug amongst its fellows. ‘That one.’ The lock was well oiled and the key turned easily.
The first thing I saw was Daniel, long body stretched out in calm repose upon his tall-backed chair, wide smile upon his lips, lost in warm reflection, an expression of divine bliss on his big face. His eyes were closed, like he relished a long rest after many nights without sleep. He breathed slow and regular, arms folded upon his chest. Why was he so happy?
Franklin’s cell was quiet. ‘Hold!’ I put up a hand and shuffled backwards. ‘Franklin’s cell is open.’ I could see his head and shoulders. He sat on a chair facing away from us. ‘He is still inside.’
‘We must close it,’ the ginger man whispered. ‘Else he will leap upon us. He once bit a man’s hand clean off his arm.’
‘A good story,’ I muttered, though I still recalled with a shudder those animal brown eyes and ravenous mouth. ‘He doesn’t move.’
There was no key in the lock. It would take no time to run to the cell door and throw it closed, yet to find the key on this great ring might take a minute. A picture formed in my mind of Franklin eating off Dowling’s fingers one by one as he attempted to hold the door shut while I fumbled. ‘Do you know which key locks Franklin’s door?’ I whispered to the ginger man, eyes fixed upon Franklin all the while.
‘No,’ he replied, a drip of sweat trickling down his nose.
‘Then, Davy, you will have to hold the door closed with a chair while I find it.’ I turned to him. ‘Do you have the strength to hold off a deranged lunatic?’
‘I am well acquainted with the machinations of deranged lunatics,’ Dowling replied, smiling without humour.
I pointed at a chair lain upon its side on the floor in front of us. Had it not been in Franklin’s cell last time we were here? ‘You run, pick up the chair and hold the cell door closed while I find the key.’
‘I will wait here,’ the ginger man said quickly.
‘If it is him at all.’ I peered. ‘Franklin had long black hair. That man’s hair is cut short.’ I glanced sideways at the ginger fellow. ‘Has he had his hair cut since Tuesday?’
‘He has never had his hair cut at all,’ the ginger man replied. ‘No sane man would go close to him with scissors.’
‘What strange mystery is this?’ Dowling growled, stepping forward. The figure did not move at the sound of our shoes upon the stones. His head tilted backwards as though he slept.
‘Godamercy!’ Dowling exclaimed, s
tood at the bars. ‘His throat is cut!’ He marched into the cell and took the dead man’s hair in one hand.
This man was big, bigger than Franklin. ‘Who is it?’
Dowling peered into the corpse’s white face. ‘Pestilence.’
‘Pestilence?’ I felt a small thrill of guilty delight.
Dowling rubbed his fingers across the dead man’s face, pulling at his loose flesh to see what spring remained. ‘Aye, the same. The flesh is cold, yet still hard.’ He pushed the head forward so it sunk upon his chest with a thick squelch. ‘He was killed last night.’
I felt suddenly unsafe, for the lunatic might be anywhere. If he had ne’er left this cell in ten years, likely he would be reluctant to venture too far away. ‘Where is he?’
‘Not in here.’ Dowling ran his finger along the edge of the man’s jagged flesh.
‘Yet the door was locked.’ I strode back to Daniel’s cell. ‘What happened?’ I shouted at Daniel through the bars, trying to awaken him.
Daniel opened his eyes slowly, still smiling like he was gone to Heaven.
‘He used a boning knife.’ Dowling called.
‘Daniel!’ I cried.
Daniel sighed deeply.
‘Who killed him, Daniel?’
A low rumble emanated from Daniel’s mouth. ‘He discovereth deep things out of darkness, and bringeth out to light the shadow of death.’
Bible talk. I nodded to Dowling. ‘You speak to him.’
‘Who killed him, Daniel?’ Dowling called.
Daniel turned slowly, eyes distant. ‘He is the wolf that dwelleth with the lambs.’
Dowling walked towards the bars of his cell rubbing his palms upon his shirt. ‘What is the wolf’s name?’
‘His name is Abimelech,’ Daniel declared. ‘He that toucheth this man or his wife shall surely be put to death.’
Dowling pushed his nose through the bars. ‘Was it Franklin?’
‘Franklin,’ Daniel repeated, shaking his head like the word was sinful. Then he leant backwards and closed his eyes once more.
A Plague of Sinners Page 17