A Plague of Sinners

by Paul Lawrence

  Dowling shrugged. ‘I don’t know what he means.’

  ‘Methinks it clear enough,’ I considered. ‘I told War that Franklin was here when they tortured you at the Clink. Pestilence came to do to Franklin what they did to you and suffered the consequence.’

  Dowling looked down, perplexed. ‘Then Franklin took the key from Pestilence and locked the vestry door on his way out? A strange thing for a lunatic to do.’

  My own brain started tiptoeing in circles besides. ‘And where is Morrison?’

  ‘There is another door.’ Dowling pointed. Sat snug in the corner, at the back of the room, was a squat low door I hadn’t noticed before.

  ‘The key should be on the ring,’ called our escort, still reluctant to come forth.

  Dowling took the keys from me and searched on the ring as he walked. He dropped to his knees, for the door was short, and tried the keys one by one, until finally he succeeded in unlocking it.

  The door led out to the back of the priory, a place we had not ventured before. We kicked our way through knee-length yellow weeds, grown sickly from the filth. Ahead of us grew the garden, overgrown with long grasses; cyperus and rush-grass among them.

  The uneasy peace was broken by the squawking of a crow above our heads, flapping noisily to the centre of the tiny meadow, descending into an area where the grass lay flatter. Then a second, launching itself from atop the asylum, disappearing into the hollow. What did they seek? I pushed into the grass, surprised to find the ground wet and spongy beneath my feet.

  The ginger man followed us, a pace behind. ‘Where the cesspit leaks,’ he explained.

  I steeled my flagging will as moisture seeped into my shoes and surrounded my feet. The crows scrabbled and hopped heavy-footed ahead of us.

  The second corpse lay prone, arms and legs sprawled, naked gut spilt over the top of his trousers. His shirt hung in tatters about his torso. The crows pecked at the hole in his stomach that someone had fashioned with a large serrated blade. His face scrunched up into a ball of intense concentration like he was breaking wind. A fly walked light-footed across his pursed blue lips.

  ‘Who is he?’ I wondered aloud, for it was not War.

  ‘Gallagher,’ whispered the ginger man, shaking.

  Dowling waved an arm at the indignant birds. ‘The other jailer.’ The belly bloated, skin mottled purple and red. Fat maggots squirmed within the body cavity, well fed and ripe.

  ‘He has been here about a week I would say.’ Dowling opened one eye with his thumb. The eyeball returned his stare, glassy, clouded and dull. He turned to the ginger man. ‘You last saw him on Monday?’

  ‘Or the day before.’ The ginger man held the back of his hand to his mouth and screwed his eyes up tight.

  ‘Stabbed in the gut and left to rot.’ Dowling stood. ‘What is your name?’ he asked the ginger man.

  ‘Smith,’ he replied, afore emptying his guts into the grass. The crows watched hungrily.

  Dowling laid a long arm about his narrow shoulders and regarded him kindly. ‘What has been going on here the last few weeks, Smith?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Smith exclaimed. ‘Nothing I can think of. Pateson has not been here for several weeks, but Morrison and Gallagher said it was because his wife couldn’t abide living here, and I seen him anyway, he’s not dead.’ He looked up into Dowling’s eyes. ‘Leastways he wasn’t.’

  ‘We saw him day afore yesterday,’ Dowling assured him. ‘He wasn’t dead then. What of Morrison?’

  ‘As I told you.’ Smith’s voice sounded shrill. ‘He was here this morning, then disappeared.’

  ‘Did he say anything of Gallagher’s absence?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes!’ Smith held up a long, white finger. ‘Now you say it, so he did. He said Gallagher was sickly and would be coming back next week.’ He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘And when he said it, he seemed sad. I thought Gallagher might be plagued.’

  Dowling turned. ‘He has family?’

  ‘Aye,’ Smith nodded eagerly. ‘They live behind the wall, off St Mary Axe.’

  ‘Morrison and Gallagher knew each other well, it seems.’

  ‘It was Gallagher recommended Morrison to Pateson.’ Smith frowned. ‘Said they worked together before, but I don’t remember more.’

  ‘I heard Gallagher was a hard man.’

  ‘Aye, hard, but you has to be hard working here. They are strong, some of them, and if you don’t keep them in their place then they take liberties. That’s what he taught me.’

  ‘How did he treat you?’

  ‘Treated me fine.’ Smith squared his shoulders. ‘Both of them did.’ Yet his eyes betrayed him.

  ‘Did you ever see the Earl of St Albans come visiting?’ I asked.

  ‘An earl?’ Smith wiped an arm across his nose. ‘Never saw no earl.’

  Dowling puffed out his cheeks. ‘We had best move this body,’ he sighed. ‘Though we’ll be lucky to find a box.’

  The crows descended once more, their fear of us given way to their hunger for maggots.

  Chapter Nineteen

  JUDGEMENT OF SICKNESS BY ASTROLOGY

  Let the physician take the time of his own first speaking with, or access to the patient, or when the urine was first brought to him.

  Gallagher lay so long in the grass, his body had assumed a strange shape, his back and sides having settled flat on the ground. He rested snug against the boards of the cart and didn’t seem to bounce as much as Wharton did on the way to St Albans.

  The guards at Bishopsgate flocked to us like hungry sheep, for Dowling’s wagon resembled a death-cart. It took us almost half the hour to persuade them we transported the body on Arlington’s behalf and to demonstrate Gallagher was not plague afflicted. Dowling was obliged to cut away his clothes and reveal the dead man in all his naked glory, pierced through the guts but otherwise healthy.

  We were granted wide berth as we trundled sedately down Camomile Street and St Mary Axe searching for the alley that would lead us to the small courtyard where Gallagher lived. This was a poor area, houses towering high above us, chattering hives of anxiety and despondency, so many now without jobs nor trade. Men, women and children came to their windows to watch us attempt to steer the cart through the narrow labyrinth, shouting at us in indignant consternation upon seeing the covered corpse. Every body was a plague victim these days. Finally we were forced to unhitch the wagon from the horse and retreat to St Mary Axe, defeated by the narrow passage.

  Dowling tied the horse and gave a penny to a young fellow with surly expression. For another penny he led us quickly through the maze to the small door that was Mary Gallagher’s. Outside the door sat a watcher, and upon the door was painted a broad, red cross.

  ‘This is the house of Mary Gallagher?’ I asked the old man.

  He sat with arms folded above his tight, round belly, blue eyes catching us for a moment. ‘Aye, so it is, and you will not be going in there.’ He remained seated.

  As we stood in shocked silence, so the little door opened and a frightened face peered out. In the woman’s arms I saw an infant, tiny and unmoving.

  ‘Get ye back in there!’ The watcher flew from his chair and pulled on the door handle to close it. ‘The lock is broken,’ he explained, wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve. ‘Her baby died, and she has been waiting two days for someone to collect it.’

  ‘Godamercy!’ Dowling exclaimed in horrified disgust. ‘And why do you not fetch the bearer?’

  ‘I am not permitted to leave this seat.’ The watcher planted himself firmly back upon his stool. ‘Only when relieved. I have sent message to the church twice. What more can I do?’ He folded his arms once more and stuck out his lip.

  ‘Let us take the infant to the church,’ I volunteered.

  ‘The baby is plagued,’ he replied. ‘Only a bearer may take the child.’

  Dowling stood above him and glowered at his head. ‘Let us talk to the mother.’

  The watcher regarded the butcher sternly fro
m beneath a lined, white-haired brow. ‘You go near that door then I shall see you arrested and thrown in there with her.’ He wriggled sharply, settling his bulk comfortable. ‘See how you like that.’

  ‘You cannot leave a dead body in that house for two days!’ Dowling shouted so loud the whole courtyard heard it.

  ‘It is not I that has left the body in there two days!’ the watcher shouted back. ‘It is the church that does not send someone to collect him.’

  So the infant was a boy. I tugged at Dowling’s sleeve and hauled him away before he shoved the watcher’s stool down his throat. ‘I have a plan,’ I whispered loud in his angry ear. ‘One I have executed well before.’

  I succeeded eventually in dragging Dowling away, though it had been easier to persuade the horse. I returned half an hour later in the medic’s garb, now dry, long beak filled with fresh herbs.

  The watcher jumped to attention, blue eyes wide. Since the lock was broken I needed nothing from him, and proceeded direct into the low house.

  I removed the mask immediately, since I needed to talk to her and could not hold a conversation with someone who stared at me like I was a beast from the depths of Hell. For the first time in my life I thanked God I was so short, for the ceiling hung just a few inches above my head. The whole house creaked as though the stack of rooms above would crash down upon us at any moment.

  ‘Mrs Gallagher?’ I said quietly, attention drawn to the little cot by the window.

  ‘Yes,’ she whimpered, body strung tight upon itself.

  I stepped to the cot and lifted the sheet. ‘Your baby is dead?’

  She nodded, tears streaking her dirty face, nose red and swollen.

  I saw his sex clearly, since he wasn’t bound. ‘Shall I take him with me?’

  ‘What will you do with him?’ she pleaded, kneading red hands upon themselves.

  I contemplated the scene about me, the poor house, broken chair, holes in the wall. Likely they would throw the baby in the pit at Cripplegate.

  ‘I will see him buried. Either at St Helen’s or All Hallows.’

  ‘All Hallows?’ she asked, anxious.

  ‘If St Helen’s is full, then I know the rector at All Hallows, and I know he would not turn your child away.’ Though I would have to pay him.

  ‘That is kind of you,’ she said, like she could not understand why I should wish to help. ‘My husband is away and I don’t know when he will come back.’

  ‘Where has he gone?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ New tears welled. ‘He hasn’t come home since Monday. I am afraid.’ She began tearing at the front of her dress. ‘He works at St Mary Bethlehem, but he hasn’t come home this week and I cannot go out to find him.’ She sat down and clutched her arms about her belly. The sadness scored deep into her mouth said she feared he had deserted.

  I sat opposite her. ‘I am not really a medic.’

  Her eyes fixed upon mine while the rest of her face slowly contorted in new anxiety.

  ‘It was the only device I could think of to gain entrance,’ I explained. ‘For I have news of your husband, bad news.’

  She twisted the apron upon her lap round and about her wrists.

  I tried to hold her hands, but they continued to wind the apron into a long helix. ‘He died.’

  ‘Oh,’ she replied, looking about the room as if for the first time, already contemplating life from the perspective of one alone. Tears streamed down her face, mucus leaked from her nose, and she opened her mouth wide, showing all her teeth. She stretched her arms out towards me. I hesitated a moment, for this was a house of plague. Yet my fate was risked long ago. Offering solace to a widow could make no difference, so I took her in my arms and allowed her all the time she needed.

  At last she disentangled herself and sat back upon the stool, eyes puffy as her nose, red marks against her pale face where she rubbed against the rough leather of my cloak. Hair long and lifeless. I wondered what she had looked like a year ago, pregnant and hopeful.

  ‘How did he die?’ she asked, fetching a cloth to wipe at her face.

  ‘He was murdered,’ I said gently. ‘At Bedlam.’

  She held the cloth to her nose, new tears spilling from her eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘He was killed, we think last Lord’s Day. We found him this morning, in the meadow at the back.’

  ‘How could that happen?’ she demanded, anger inflating her shoulders, straightening her back.

  ‘I don’t know, but I will find out. I am hoping you can tell me something that might help.’

  ‘Me?’ She perched once more upon the stool, cloth held to her nose and mouth.

  ‘Did he talk to you of Morrison, the man who started there a few months ago? I have heard it was your husband offered him the job.’

  She stared towards the window, concentrating hard on my words so she could hold other thoughts at bay. ‘Robert Morrison. He came to see Hugh back in March, I think it was. Paid Hugh to commend him to John Pateson.’

  ‘Paid him?’

  ‘He insisted,’ she sniffled. ‘They knew each other before. They were soldiers together. Hugh didn’t seek to take advantage of him, but Morrison insisted. Said he needed Hugh’s cooperation. I’m not sure what it was all about.’

  ‘They were soldiers together?’

  ‘Twenty years ago. We lived at Bury St Edmunds. Thomas Wharton raised an army in support of the King.’

  ‘The Earl of St Albans?’

  She nodded. ‘Though he wasn’t an earl then. He was a member of the parliament and was loyal to the King.’

  ‘Did your husband know Thomas Wharton?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘He was just a soldier, and I don’t think Thomas Wharton took arms himself. Morrison said he knew him. That was something they spoke about when he came in March.’

  ‘What else did they talk about?’

  Tears rushed now in a flood and she buried her face in her lap. ‘Who will bury Hugh?’ she cried, muffled.

  ‘I will see to it,’ I offered softly.

  ‘You?’ she looked up. ‘Why would you bury my husband?’

  ‘I work for Lord Arlington,’ I replied, flustered. ‘I know he would help you.’

  ‘Really?’ Her face crumpled again, and she lost herself in another deluge of loud weeping.

  I leant over and placed my hand upon her back. ‘I will help you all I can. Does the watcher bring you food and water?’

  ‘Every morning.’

  ‘Can you tell me what your husband spoke to Morrison about?’

  ‘Why can you not ask him?’ she pleaded.

  ‘He is missing since early this morning,’ I replied gently, fearing further tears might exhaust her completely. ‘And Pateson has not visited in several weeks.’

  ‘What is going on?’ she frowned, spirit surging again.

  ‘That is what I would know.’

  ‘Well.’ She wiped her cheek. ‘Robert Morrison paid Hugh to commend him to John Pateson. Said the Earl put him up to it, that’s all I remember. I thought the Earl sought to secure him a job, look after him perhaps.’

  ‘I see,’ I replied, though I didn’t. ‘What else has being going on this last three months?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘Hugh told me nothing.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Gallagher.’ I reached beneath the cloak and into my pocket. ‘You have been helpful.’ I gave her the pound Newcourt had given to me and headed for the cot.

  She tugged at my shoulder. ‘Sir, though you are not a proper medic, would you see my other child?’ She pointed at the low doorway at the back of the room. ‘I think he is ill besides.’

  Logic tugged me back out into the courtyard, away from where she would direct me. Ne’ertheless my legs carried me after her.

  The small room contained nothing but two beds. Upon the smaller lay a child, no more than three years old. Long swellings, like sausages, nestled upon his thighs and one on his hand. The tops of them had already started to blacken.

&
nbsp; She stared down at the little boy, his black hair swept back upon his head, wet and matted. ‘It is plague, isn’t it?’

  As she leant over to stroke his forehead, the sleeve of her dress rode up to her elbow revealing a ripe bubo of her own. My heart tensed tight and started beating twice as fast. My legs and arms froze in paralysed fear. I was standing next to Death, had embraced him in my arms. Godamercy!

  I marched out the room and grabbed for the mask, pulling it down upon my head. ‘Aye, it looks like plague,’ I called out so she could hear. ‘Do you have a medic visit you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then I will arrange it!’

  I turned and went to take the baby.

  ‘No!’ she cried, pushing me away. ‘I will wait!’ She took the tiny corpse into her arms and held it to her chest. Already it had started to bloat.

  I took off the mask again. ‘Let me.’

  She wept, tears dripping onto the body of the child. ‘Will you wait then?’

  ‘Wait for what?’ I asked.

  ‘If I cannot be at their funeral, then I would have you place a keepsake in their coffin.’

  She placed the child back in its cot and went to fetch a small piece of embroidery from the table behind us, which she handed to me. It wasn’t very good, but I could discern it was a design of four people, two adults, a small child and a baby, flowers stitched about the edges. All I could look at was her neck, for now it seemed swollen too.

  ‘I will,’ I promised. ‘Now I must go.’

  I put the mask on again, took the dead baby in my arms and pushed open the door.

  She waved as I left and I waved back, though I could barely lift my arm. The watcher stood away, waiting for me to leave.

  ‘Don’t come near, Davy,’ I warned, back on St Mary Axe.

  He stepped towards me anyway, puzzlement writ upon his great, lined face.

  ‘They all have plague in there, Davy, every one of them, including her, and I took my mask off, God save me.’ I held the corpse out afore me. ‘This baby is dead two days. God knows what poison breeds within it.’

  ‘You are a good man, Harry.’ Dowling came up close and put an arm about my shoulder. ‘You hide it well.’ A strange comment. ‘Do not fear the plague, for if we are not saved from the Destroying Angel, then there is good reason for our dying.’ He squeezed me hard. ‘And I think God sees you doing much good in his service and would keep you alive.’