A Plague of Sinners

by Paul Lawrence

  Boddington thrust his considerable bulk forwards, legs apart, fists dug into his waist. ‘I do not spread “malicious inventions”. I told Perkins the truth, that you cast aspersions upon the good name of our church, and therefore upon the sensibilities of the Lord our God.’

  ‘Tut!’ I exclaimed. ‘I came here to protect the good name of the Lord our God, and you behaved in a manner that doth signify your own infirmity. I told Perkins what really happened and suggested to him your behaviour might indicate a propensity to flee.’

  ‘Flee?’ Boddington roared.

  ‘Aye, flee,’ I said again. ‘He was most displeased and hath summoned you to appear before him. Good luck to you.’

  ‘Summoned me where?’

  ‘I suggest you use your own intelligence,’ I replied, for I had no idea. ‘I, meantime, shall retire to the King’s Wardrobe, where I currently reside. Fare-thee-well.’

  The bells rang for one o’ clock.

  Perkins’ red coach appeared at the junction of Ave Maria Lane and Paternoster Row. I watched it turn from my hiding place in the shadow of a tall fir tree in St Paul’s churchyard. It travelled faster than it had the day before, the four guards accompanying it having to run long-legged to keep up. I heaved a sigh of relief and followed at safe distance.

  Another hour and a half was gone. Forman and Withypoll had left again, almost an hour before, while I prayed Perkins would arrive before they returned. The coach pulled up to the front door, both horses snorting and flicking their tails, as if resentful. Perkins clambered out with all the dignity he could muster and marched up to the two guards, purple nose raw and swollen. I felt the tiniest pang of guilt nibble at the edge of my conscience.

  Perkins drew his garrison about him and remonstrated with the two unfortunates, waving his arms and shouting at the top of his voice. I crept closer, approaching from behind. The two guards scratched their heads and sought guidance of each other, until Perkins could stand it no more, pushing between them to open the front door. His four attendants followed. Two of them exchanged blows with the guards, fighting for control of the pikes they carried. One fell back, and the melee tumbled into the building. I ran forwards and into the grand hall, where Perkins stood arguing with another officious fellow, spitting my name like it was the name of the Devil.

  I headed left into the mouth of the nearest corridor, treading carefully, wary of more guards. The passage was six feet wide, lined with chipped wood panelling and naked plaster. Some rooms had doors, others didn’t, but none appeared to be in use, for dust lay thick over tables, chairs, books and shelves full of papers. The passage turned sharp right. It seemed it would carry me a full circuit of the building. Voices sounded, Perkins among them. I walked faster. At the end of the second passage an archway led into a great kitchen, and at the back of the kitchen a door led into a pantry. In the pantry I found Davy Dowling.

  He sat unmoving, leaning backwards against the wall, legs bound at the ankles, arms at the wrists. His right eye shone purple and swollen, coated with dry blood. His mouth gaped, lips dry and flaking.

  ‘Davy,’ I poked him in the stomach. ‘Wake up.’

  He groaned, and I scanned the kitchen for water, but found none. I took my little knife from inside my coat and set to cutting at the rope. I stopped when I heard Perkins’ voice louder and pulled the pantry door closed. Sitting next to Dowling I continued sawing at the bindings, praying he wouldn’t moan. I cut at his ankles first, so at least he could run, if ever he woke up. Finally I freed his hands and kneaded at his wrists to restore circulation. A large bruise covered the right side of his face. He’d been struck close to the temple.

  ‘We have to go, Davy,’ I whispered. ‘Forman and Withypoll will be back soon.’

  He stirred, blinking, then raised a hand to his head. He moved his neck and grimaced. I offered him my hand. He took it, then staggered to his feet, wobbling like he might topple.

  I eased open the pantry door and stepped into the kitchen. Perkins must have proceeded on and round. By now he likely searched upstairs. Without knowledge of other ways in or out, I decided to return the way we came, relying on being able to surprise the guards at the door and run off into the City.

  Dowling plodded like an arthritic bear, leaning too heavily upon my shoulder. I relieved myself of his weight and poked him in the arse. Wounds or no wounds, he had to recover his wits now. He stood unsteady, arms out to his side, balancing.

  ‘Come on, Davy,’ I urged him. ‘I need you to run.’

  He put a hand to his eye. ‘I can’t see.’

  I tugged him by the arm and waved a hand in front of his good eye. He blinked and shook himself free.

  At the threshold to the hall all seemed quiet. The main doors were closed. Just as I was about to prod Dowling forwards, the doors flew open, crashing against the wall. Withypoll cursed, throwing his hat across the hallway, striding straight towards the kitchen, the most direct route I assumed. Forman followed in his tracks, dropping his fine jacket in a heap.

  ‘We must go now,’ I whispered to Dowling.

  Dowling lumbered in a strange crouching shuffle like a giant baboon, but made good speed. I ran past him and opened the door, stepping out into the sunshine.

  ‘Lytle!’ Perkins rubbed his hands together and laughed with delight. ‘I was just about to leave.’

  His men descended upon me and all went black.

  The Compter stood on Poultry. A man might mistake it for a house were it not for the barred gate covering the door, but inside was as dank as every other squalid hole I visited this last week. Had I sought to infect myself and paint a red cross upon my own forehead, I could not have devised a better schedule.

  I sat by myself in a tiny cell at the end of a shadowy passageway. Across skulked a young fellow with wet, blue eyes and lank, greasy hair falling limp about either side of his face. He spoke incessantly about his deep and personal journey from abject sinner to clean soul and glorious redemption. To my left, a poor fellow with bald head and loose lower lip said less, muttering from time to time about ravens plucking out his eyes. To my right lay a man on the floor, sweat pouring from his forehead, jaws clenched tight and body shaking. Familiar symptoms.

  My heart pounded with rage and fear. I could not dwell here long. I wrung my hands, chewed at my lip and wondered what to do. Where was Dowling? Had they arrested him too? I reckoned I had been here half an hour, which would make it about five o’clock. Seven hours to our appointment at Leadenhall. I had to get out.

  I called for the gaoler, a small fellow with thick, dark brows stuck upon a round, white face. Short, cropped black hair covered his head in a layer of fine bristle and he shuffled with a stoop, carrying his round belly like a pregnant woman. He looked as if he woke up here one day and couldn’t find his way out, a giant mole. He appeared afore me, shambling and unhappy.

  ‘Release me,’ I urged him, ‘and I will pay you five pounds.’

  He rolled his eyes as though he regretted the long walk. I imagined I was not the first to make such an offer.

  ‘I work for Lord Arlington.’

  ‘So say you,’ moaned the Mole. ‘I release you and never see you again, nor your five pounds, and William Perkins comes and asks me where you’ve gone. When I confess to him I know not where you went, nor how you escaped, what do you think he does?’

  ‘Then don’t release me.’ I gripped the bars in my fists. ‘Send word to a man called Newcourt at the Guildhall. That is all I ask. For that you will still be paid five pounds. And if the money is not forthcoming then you may make my life a misery.’

  ‘Why should I wish to make your life a misery?’ the Mole grumbled. ‘It is miserable enough in here, do ye not think?’

  ‘I beseech you,’ I pleaded. ‘I am a King’s agent.’

  The Mole grunted to himself and stood motionless. ‘Where should I deliver this message?’ he asked at last.

  ‘The office of Sir Thomas Player,’ I replied quickly. ‘Or else to one of the guards. I
t matters not.’

  ‘I shall think on it,’ he pronounced finally. ‘I shall go out to eat my dinner and shall think on it then.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I leant back on the hard bench, some shred of hope restored.

  An age later, I still sat alone. I called out for the Mole, but no one came. I called out until my throat was sore. The Mole heard, he could not help but hear, yet he chose to ignore me. I banged my fist against the stone wall and succeeded only in skinning my knuckles and causing my fingers to swell.

  The man next to me was plagued. The closer he journeyed to death, moaning piteously, the louder the young fellow opposite chattered. My mood oscillated between rage and despair. Would that the man died and put us all out of our misery. Why did they not take him to a pesthouse? His symptoms were clear enough, for I saw tokens upon his neck even from where I sat, small, raised brown marks.

  Hours later the Mole appeared again, long nose reaching out afore him as though he walked by smell and not by sight.

  I flung myself at the bars. ‘What time is it?’ I whispered, hoarse.

  ‘Ten o’clock,’ he muttered.

  Godamercy. Two hours to midnight. ‘Have you had dinner?’

  ‘I have,’ he answered, avoiding my eye.

  Newcourt emerged in the Mole’s tracks. ‘Harry?’ He stooped to avoid catching his wig upon the ceiling. He held a mouchoir to his nose and walked gingerly, as though afraid of stepping in something indescribable.

  ‘Thanks be to God! You must ensure my release!’

  Newcourt watched the sick man. ‘Who ensured your imprisonment?’

  ‘William Perkins,’ I said. ‘The cleric. He is convinced Wharton tortured men at the King’s behest and that Lord Arlington knew of it besides.’

  ‘He is a passionate man.’ Newcourt shuffled uneasily. ‘You should have left him alone.’

  ‘Wharton’s dogs said he pursued Wharton like he was a dog himself. All I did was ask George Boddington some questions.’

  Newcourt edged further away from the afflicted man. ‘I cannot stay here.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ I replied. I pointed at the Mole. ‘You must tell him to let me go.’

  Newcourt shook his head and stepped back the way he had come. ‘I will talk to his lordship.’

  ‘But he is still at Hampton Court?’

  ‘Yes,’ Newcourt affirmed. ‘I saw him yesterday. He is busy. I will go there again on Monday.’

  ‘I cannot stay here until Monday,’ I exclaimed. ‘You must release me now.’

  Newcourt pointed a finger at me. ‘Lord Arlington is not pleased, Lytle,’ he grumbled. ‘He did not expect to hear his own name mentioned in connection with the Earl’s death. It would have been as well you proclaimed Burke to be guilty.’

  ‘That was Chelwood’s agenda,’ I protested.

  Newcourt pushed his face close to mine. ‘The same agenda. Chelwood determined to proceed discreetly in discovering who killed Wharton. It was best for all our sakes that Burke was kept quiet.’ He stepped backwards. ‘Now you are the one attracting too much attention.’

  I felt my jaw drop.

  ‘I will send message once I have spoken to his lordship again,’ Newcourt snapped. He clicked his fingers at the Mole and pointed at the shivering fellow. ‘That man is dying of plague. You cannot leave him here.’

  The Mole bowed his head and shuffled away, embarrassed. With one last peek at the dying man, Newcourt was gone besides.

  Two hours to go, and I remained stuck here. I seized the bars and shook them, to no avail. Then, unbidden and unanticipated, I experienced a sudden urge to scream at the top of my voice, a giant roar of unrequited fury. When it was done my heart pounded so hard my chest shivered. The blood pumped in my ears, and I heard the sound of my own panting, like a terrified dog. I rested silent again, amazed by what I did. I felt much better, as though I regurgitated all my tensions back out into the fog of body smell, where they lingered in like company. Then the tension began to brew again, driven by the sense of impotence I felt locked up in this wet burrow. When the medic arrived I approached my second scream.

  The medic loomed vast, waxed cloak barely reaching his knees. The Mole unlocked the cell next door, hands shaking. Then the medic pushed him aside and dropped to one knee next to the figure on the floor. He touched him upon the neck, undid his shirt, and poked about.

  A muffled voice mumbled through the heavy mask. ‘I need a man to help me carry him. That man is the right height.’ He pointed at me. ‘Unless you will carry him yourself.’

  The Mole reached for his keys and unlocked my cell door. The medic crooked his finger. I shook my head as hard as I could shake it. I had no intention of approaching the infected man, but the medic insisted and stamped his foot hard, which is when I noticed he wore Davy Dowling’s boots.

  We carried the unconscious victim of plague with bare hands, out through the passage and up towards the sun, the Mole close behind. As we lay the man down on the cobbles our heads came together, and I heard a muffled sound coming from Dowling’s beak that sounded like ‘saltpetre’. Once we stood straight the Mole bore down upon me with little steps.

  Dowling removed his mask and stared down at the Mole through swollen eyes. The whole right side of his face was now purple and yellow, and the bristles on his head stood up in fierce indignation. The Mole shrank before him.

  ‘Run, Harry,’ Dowling whispered.

  I turned and ran, and as I did so my head cleared, and I realised that ‘saltpetre’ was ‘St Peter’. The Mole and Davy Dowling pursued, though the Mole lasted but twenty yards before he stopped, hands on knees, gasping like he would explode.

  ‘In the cart, Harry,’ Dowling panted when we reached the church. ‘We must hide.’

  Aye, but only ’til midnight.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  IF ONE BE AFRAID OF A THING, WHETHER HE SHALL BE IN DANGER OF THE SAME OR NOT

  Behold the ascendant and his Lord, and the moon; if you find the moon unfortunate, or if the Lord of the ascendant be unfortunate, and falling from an angle; or especially in the twelfth and moon with him; it signifies the same fear is true, and certain that there is cause for it.

  Leadenhall was two centuries old, built as a granary and market hall at a time of famine. It resembled a great fortress, with high stone walls and octagonal turrets on each corner. The ground floor consisted of a series of large, arched windows, all traceried and barred with iron. The entrance was of simple design, two enormous oaken doors behind huge iron gates, locked and chained.

  Dowling peered through a ground-floor window. ‘Did he tell you to meet him inside or outside?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’ I struggled to be sure. ‘He just said for you and I to meet him at midnight, no earlier, no later.’

  It was midnight, and Wharton was nowhere to be seen. I wanted to run around the building calling his name, terrified he waited somewhere else. I recalled Oliver Willis’ face, furious and petrified. I prayed he hadn’t followed from a distance; Wharton would smell him, for sure.

  Cornhill was empty to the west and Leadenhall Street to the east, no one within a couple of minutes’ walk. I banged my fist against the thick stone wall. ‘He is late!’

  ‘He is a torturer, Harry.’ Dowling laid a hand upon my shoulder. ‘Now he tortures you. Let’s walk about the building and see what we can find.’

  I sighed, ready to eat my own arm. ‘What if he comes here while we are away?’

  ‘Leave your jacket at the grille,’ Dowling suggested. ‘If he comes then he will guess we are searching for him.’

  I wriggled out my jacket, pushed it through the iron lattice and tied it in a loose knot. ‘Let’s be quick then.’

  We hurried east, along Leadenhall Street. A passage led down the side of the building, lit blue by the sickly moon. Halfway down we found another door, again locked. Just before reaching the end we came across a narrow alleyway, rustling and whispering, pitch black. We walked the alley blind, each feeling our way dow
n one wall until we met at passage end. No door, no way in.

  Houses nestled up close to the south wall, leaving but a small corridor, a dirt floor covered in rubbish and debris. Halfway down we found a third door, again thick, yet older and less well cared for, the wood beginning to twist and gnarl. I tried the handle without much hope, but it opened. Behind lay a naked yard, unkempt and sparse, shadowed about the edges.

  We walked the perimeter, aware of the multitude of black windows staring down upon the small quadrangle. A dark porch beckoned at the far side, drawing us in, another open door enticing us further. We stepped into a long narrow room, wooden partitions within stone walls creating hiding spaces.

  I nudged up close to Dowling. ‘You think he means to kill us?’

  ‘Methinks it likely,’ he whispered.

  We stood in silence, listening as hard as we could. A faint dripping sounded in the distance.

  ‘We need light,’ Dowling muttered.

  We proceeded one step at a time, senses strained. Halfway down the market stood a tall archway, barely visible in the gloom, and beyond it a glimmer of light, tiny and distant. We scuttled towards the beacon like mice. It stayed small, dancing in the weak draught, the work of just a single candle. As we drew closer, so we saw the light shine from beyond a doorway, inside a small room. Then I heard a moan, a tight sound, someone in great pain, exhausted. It didn’t sound like Liz Willis.

  Dowling craned his neck and peered inside. I watched his face light up in the weak, orange glow. Then he exhaled as if punched in the belly and clasped a hand to his gaping mouth. This was the butcher, the man who ran his hands over dead bodies like sides of meat. I knew I didn’t want to share his vision, knew also that I must.

  Even now, in the middle of the night, I still see those milky blue eyes staring forward. Sightless or no, I couldn’t tell, but they didn’t move when I moved, nor did they seem focussed on anything. Then I saw his entrails fallen in a steaming pile, glistening and pink. Foulest of all, two black rats sat upon their haunches, gripping with tiny claws and gnawing with sharp yellow incisors. Morrison, the vanished gaoler, innards upon the floor, his organs revealed for all to see.