A Plague of Sinners

by Paul Lawrence

  Fuller looked up, eyes curious. ‘Harry.’ The man counting coins looked up.

  ‘I wish to lodge a complaint.’ I clenched my jaw. ‘About that man Hearsey.’ I pointed to his ledger. ‘Write it down.’

  Fuller leant back in his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘What is this complaint?’

  ‘Yesterday, when he brought me here, he struck me forcibly and kicked my legs as I tried to walk, he and his friend.’ I leant down and tapped my finger upon his desk. ‘Also I heard he was a watcher before in Bishopsgate-Without. I heard he entered houses during the night and stole things.’

  Fuller sighed. ‘Who told you that?’

  I moved to lean against the wall, key hooks to my right. ‘Write it down and I will tell you.’ I met the eye of the curious man who placed coins into piles and stared with withering ferocity until he looked away.

  Fuller fetched in his drawer for a smaller journal, opened it to the first page and dipped his quill in the inkpot.

  ‘The fellow’s name is John James Meredith,’ I recited slowly. Fuller scratched out the name with due diligence, squinting with old eyes at his own writing.

  ‘Hounsditch,’ I continued, watching his slow scratching. ‘At Bishopsgate-Without.’

  It took him a minute or more to write the address. He raised his brows. ‘What would you have me do now?’

  ‘Investigate it.’ I marched towards the door and returned to Bread Street with mine own key tucked safely in my pocket.

  Dowling sat already in the cart. ‘Are you ready?’ he called, impatient.

  ‘Aye.’ I hopped up beside him. ‘Why the hurry?’

  ‘That great oaf tells me there is plague at Ludgate.’ Dowling tossed his head in the direction of Hearsey. ‘If we would save Henry Burke we must get there before they close it up.’

  Two wooden boxes lay outside Ludgate Gaol, each the size of a man’s body, one stacked untidily atop the other. A rank odour lurched sluggishly upon a slight breeze from the direction of the bars above, a stench of necrosis and contagion.

  I jumped down onto the cobbles just as the jail door burst open. A man strode out, a tall, strong fellow wearing the clothes of a workman. He carried his hat in his hand and marched up the hill towards St Paul’s, head down. I called after him, but he took no notice, so I hurried after, urging him to wait. He was reluctant to stop, reluctant to slow even.

  ‘Wait now.’ I struggled to breathe. His legs stretched longer than mine. ‘I am a King’s agent and I demand you stop a brief moment.’

  At that he stayed. His long face was drawn and dried hard, like it might never smile again. ‘King’s agent?’

  ‘Aye,’ I panted. ‘What business do you have in Ludgate?’

  ‘They imprisoned my father, accused him of not paying a debt.’ The acid in his voice spoke of grave injustice, real or imagined.

  ‘He is no longer imprisoned?’

  ‘He is dead!’ the man snapped, cheeks flushed.

  As I feared.

  ‘What’s it like in there now?’ I asked.

  ‘Go in and see for yourself.’

  Which was my plan. ‘The smell of the pest is strong.’

  He nodded. ‘And many times stronger inside. If you would truly know, then go inside yourself. It is difficult to describe Hell.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said inadequately. He turned away and strode off.

  It would be sensible to follow him up the hill, away from the prison, I reflected. Instead I returned to where Dowling waited.

  I poked my head inside the door to the tower and listened to the shouting, loud and frantic, coming from the top of the stairs.

  I returned to the cart. ‘I will go in by myself.’ I grabbed the hated cloak and mask. ‘Then I will be able to go as I please, find Burke and perhaps bring him out.’

  Dowling stood awkward, grunting to himself as though he would object. Yet the medic’s clothes were too small for him, and if he were to accompany me then the Assistant would realise who I was.

  I marched towards the open door and climbed the stairs, wondering what lunacy awaited. As I emerged into the quadrant I found all the prisoners sat huddled together against one wall, while three guards, the Assistant and Master-of-the-Box besides, staggered about the room shouting slurred protests at each other.

  ‘What is happening?’ I shouted at the Assistant, his long body waving like a sapling in the wind as he lurched from foot to foot.

  He waved a hand at my beak as though he thought to catch it. ‘The plague is happening.’ He staggered. ‘Have ye been asleep this month?’

  ‘How many dead?’

  ‘Five so far,’ he slurred, before tripping over his feet and cracking his head against the stone floor.

  Against the wall to my right slumped a man by himself, avoided by all others, grey-faced and foggy-eyed. His legs lay straight afore him, his arms limp in his lap. He didn’t blink.

  The Assistant climbed to his feet and rubbed a finger gingerly against his forehead. ‘We have them locked in the cells upstairs.’ He pointed to the corpse. ‘That one is dead, so we fetched him down.’

  ‘You touched the body?’

  ‘Ha!’ he spluttered. ‘You cannot leave dead men with living men, and you cannot leave plague in the middle of a prison, else men will break out of their cells with their heads. We have a box downstairs and will move him soon.’

  ‘Are you not afraid of contracting the sickness yourself?’

  He shook his head, pulled a bottle from the pocket of his coat and offered it to me. ‘I have had the pox already and we drink sack to kill any poison that would try to infect us.’

  ‘You know the door stands open downstairs?’

  ‘Aye, as I said.’ He pointed again at the dead man. ‘We must take him out.’

  ‘I will help you then.’ I walked towards the corpse and knelt, probing with my fingers to check he was truly dead.

  The Assistant drew close and I bid him take the feet while I took the shoulders. I looked into his face and saw James, smiling and excited. ‘Lift!’ I cried, and we carried the corpse easily, for it was light.

  I walked backwards down the stairs, afraid the Assistant would fall over. As it was he tripped over his feet twice and almost stumbled.

  Out on the street Dowling’s cart was gone.

  I laid the body on the ground and scanned both directions while the Assistant removed the lid from a box. I thought to ask the guards where Dowling went, but then I saw Withypoll stood with Forman up in the shadow of the cathedral. Dowling must have ridden away when he saw them.

  ‘Hurry,’ I urged the Assistant. ‘I have others to visit as well.’

  We placed the dead man inside the coffin and replaced the lid. Then I climbed the stairs two at a time, praying Forman and Withypoll didn’t know I had the medic’s uniform. I wondered if there was another door out. There must be.

  The Master-of-the-Box stood with eyes closed in the middle of the room. I grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and shook. ‘How long has the pest been here?’

  ‘It came sudden.’ He gazed upon my chest. ‘Six men were brought here late yesterday and taken to the cells. By this morning five were dead. Now more are infected.’ He puffed out his cheeks and took a swig at his bottle. ‘I can’t remember how many.’

  ‘Who brought them in?’

  ‘Floor-man and Lily-pole,’ he stuttered. ‘King’s men, so they say. Insisted.’ He shrugged. ‘I told ’em they was sick. Told ’em, I did.’

  ‘One wore a beaver hat, the other a fine suit?’

  He rocked back on his heels. ‘That’s them. Knew they were sick, I reckon. Wouldn’t touch ’em.’ He sunk to the floor where he squatted, looking as though he would vomit. ‘Just poked them with a stick.’ He put a finger in his ear and spoke louder. ‘That stick.’ He pointed at a long rod about the height of a man, leaning against the wall.

  ‘Am I the first medic to visit?’

  ‘No.’ His eyes wandered. ‘Other fellow told us to put
the infected all together in the same cell. Keep them away from the rest.’ He pursed his lips. ‘King’s men said they were debtors, see. Told us we has to keep them here until they dead.’

  ‘So now they are isolated?’

  ‘Nope!’ He shook his head so hard his hair flew about. ‘King’s men came in after and told us we couldn’t put five men in one cell. Said it was inhospitable.’

  ‘I see.’ Which meant they might be back soon to check. ‘I will go and look upstairs.’

  The Master-of-the-Box pulled his head back into his neck and stared at my costume. ‘Are you a medic too?’

  ‘Aye, a medic too.’ I put out my hand. ‘Give me the keys.’

  He obliged, eventually, and I climbed the stairs. All was quiet. I approached the passageway leading to Burke’s cell and unlocked the door.

  I walked straight into a wall of foul sickness, sweet and cloying, penetrating even the ball of herbs in my mask. Each small cell was full, three men in each. In the first cell to the left nothing moved. Two bodies lay prone on the floor and another sat with its back to the wall, all clothed, none moving. Flies scuttled unmolested over all three, wandering in all directions as though they searched for something, fat, blue flies scavenging off grey, dying skin. I assumed all three were dead until one moved. Another groaned.

  In the second cell were three more men. One stood on a florin in one corner and two sat shivering on the floor. The one standing was Burke, eyes dull, face swollen, head pouring with sweat. He clutched himself about the chest, legs close together as if he stood on top of a tall building, terrified to move. The three men in the cell to the right lay motionless.

  I tried talking to Burke, but he showed no signs of hearing. I lifted the hood high enough to speak. Another wave of fetid air engulfed my moist head. ‘What are you doing in there, Burke?’ I called.

  He held his hands to his head and stared at the men afore him. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Yesterday you had a cell to yourself.’

  ‘I did, aye. Then they brought six men in here, all of them diseased, and Forman and Withypoll ordered the Master-of-the-Box to lock them up with me.’ Burke clenched his fists and held them to his temples. ‘They wouldn’t let me out.’

  So that was it. Dispose of Burke discreetly. Lock him up in a small prison with plague victims.

  ‘This is murder,’ I reflected. ‘Forman and Withypoll brought the plague here to kill you. Kill you so none might know you have been killed.’

  ‘In truth?’ he said, eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Aye.’ My own heart filled with misery. ‘No need for a trial, no need for a hanging.’

  Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  I tried unlocking his cell, but no key would fit.

  ‘Withypoll took the key from the Master-of-the-Box and kept it for himself,’ Burke sobbed. ‘I don’t feel well.’ He held a hand to his chest.

  I pulled at the bars, but the door was locked. I watched him weep, saw the terror in his eyes, the trembling of his legs. ‘I don’t know how to help you, Burke.’

  He watched one of the men dying at his feet, lain prone now, eyes closing. ‘I am already infected, I know it.’ I saw in his eyes the certainty of his own suffering, the death of all prospect and hope. Then the man dying on the floor let forth a weary sigh, followed by a great sneeze, and then was still.

  Burke shook his head. ‘You should not be here, not without that hood upon your head.’

  He spoke wise, I reflected. I had to be out of this place afore I got shivery myself.

  ‘Is there anything I might fetch you?’ I asked.

  He didn’t reply, just raised his face, eyes so wet they might swim out of his head.

  ‘Tell me who Forman and Withypoll work for.’

  He nodded, all hope of salvation extinguished. ‘Lord Chelwood,’ he said.

  ‘Say it again.’ I wanted to be sure I heard well.

  ‘Lord Chelwood!’ he called out clear.

  ‘Why did they take you to John Tanner’s house?’ I asked.

  He laughed, a broken sound. ‘All I wanted was some recompense.’ He looked to me like I might make his life whole again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Burke.’

  He lifted his chin. ‘I will declare mine iniquity and be sorry for my sins.’

  ‘Why did they take you to John Tanner’s house?’ I repeated.

  ‘Lord Chelwood guaranteed Wharton’s wine deal. He sent Forman and Withypoll to talk to me after Wharton was killed, said he would hide me away until the real killer was found.’ He looked to me with the flicker of a flame in his dull eyes. ‘Then when you followed me, they put me in here.’

  ‘Who is Lord Chelwood to you?’ I asked.

  ‘No one.’ He sat upon the bench, oblivious to the body afore him. ‘Just the man who guaranteed I would be paid, so it said on the document Wharton gave me.’

  ‘Forman and Withypoll work for him?’

  ‘And they will kill you as well.’ He waved a hand at the bodies about him. ‘You and the butcher.’

  ‘God bless you, Burke,’ I said quietly.

  Burke bowed his head.

  I pulled the mask back down over my head and hurried out the cells, leaving the door open behind me.

  The Assistant would need more boxes.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  IF RUMOURS BE TRUE OR FALSE, ACCORDING TO THE ANCIENTS

  You may then judge the rumours are true and very good; but if you find the Lord of the ascendant afflicted by the infortunes, or cadent in house, you must judge the contrary though he strong in the sign wherein he is.

  I returned to Newgate up the Old Bailey, outside the wall, for though I saw no sign of Forman nor Withypoll, I feared they might lie in waiting for me in the shadows of St Paul’s.

  Dowling’s house sat quiet and empty, no sign of his cart neither, so I dropped off the medic’s clothes and waited a while. If Forman and Withypoll pursued us, then this was no safe place. Where would Dowling go? If Forman and Withypoll had taken him, they would not have been chatting idly on Ave Maria Street.

  I saw no one out the window. Orange streaks slashed the purple sky and candles flickered in the first dusk. The only place I could fathom he would hide was the Guildhall. The Guildhall indeed, for it was a public place where none could molest a man undeterred.

  I left the house and hurried down Newgate Market towards Cheapside, keeping to the shadows of the eaves. Still I didn’t see my assailant before he stepped out of the alley mouth and smashed a wooden club across my stomach.

  A heavy hand descended upon my head and pulled my chin up into the air. ‘Lytle,’ hissed a familiar voice.

  War’s blue eyes shone bright and alert. Creases and stains adorned his black cloak. The hand on my shoulder squeezed so tight, my arm went numb. The last of Wharton’s dogs running wild.

  ‘Time to talk,’ he whispered hoarsely. He grabbed the scruff of my jacket and pulled me to my feet. I bent back over double, the muscles of my stomach crying out in agony.

  The tip of a sword pressed against the small of my back. ‘We don’t have time, Lytle. Forman and Withypoll followed you earlier. They may still. Move.’ He pressed the blade deeper into my flesh and steered me south.

  ‘I am not going to the river.’ I stood my ground. ‘It’s a long way and I can shout very loud.’

  He smiled thinly. ‘I could slice off your head where you stand.’

  ‘So you could, but you have come to talk, have you not?’ My heart beat so hard my voice trembled. ‘Else you would have sliced off my head already. St Paul’s is closer.’

  He snorted. ‘You take me for a fool? We are not going to Paul’s, nor anywhere else public.’

  ‘Then let’s go to the graveyard of St Vedast.’ I thought fast. ‘The lock to the gate is broken and we will be the only ones there.’

  He sneered. ‘What is at St Vedast?’

  I attempted to stand straight. ‘Nothing is at St Vedast. I used to play there as a child, and I know we
can talk undisturbed.’

  ‘St Vedast then,’ he ceded, eyeing the quiet houses about us. ‘Betray me and I will cut your throat back to your spine.’

  I led him across Cheapside and up Foster Lane to the small churchyard with high walls. The lock to the gate broke more than twenty years ago. It creaked loudly as I swung it open, hinges rusted and arthritic. Not much better than the river, I reflected, as I led him onto the gravel path, for he could do as he willed to me here without fear of being disturbed.

  It was as well I knew this place, for the moon showed us little. The headstones stood white, grey and green, those I could make out in the darkness. I felt naked and exposed as we walked away from the gate.

  I followed the wide arc of the path to the left, feet crunching loud upon the stones, until we reached the familiar stone seat tucked beneath the giant oak. Crooked branches cast crazed black shadows behind which War might feel secure. A great wave of ivy tumbled down upon the seat, falling from the wall behind.

  War sat cautiously and peered out into the night. ‘What did Burke tell you?’

  ‘You have been following me,’ I realised.

  War turned his craggy face towards mine. He resembled a chopping block, a multitude of scars incised upon his face. ‘Answer me.’

  ‘He told me it was Lord Chelwood who guaranteed your wine deal,’ I replied.

  ‘It took you five days to discover it,’ War snorted.

  ‘Had you confided in us instead of torturing us, perhaps your friends would still be alive,’ I answered, irked.

  War held his sword out afront of him, catching the light of the dying moon upon the blade. ‘You work for Lord Arlington.’

  ‘What of it?’ I hissed. ‘You tortured Dowling because we work for Arlington, yet wouldn’t tell us why.’

  ‘Arlington or Perkins. One of them killed Wharton, and the others besides.’

  ‘Why so?’ I demanded. ‘What of Forman and Withypoll?’

  ‘Forman and Withypoll want to kill you, Lytle. They don’t want to kill me, nor Wharton.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You first,’ War growled. ‘What have you found out since last we met?’