He hung by his hands, tied to thick iron rings fastened into the walls, staring and alive. Someone had pulled his hat hard down upon his head so it sat just above his eyes, making him look ridiculous. His guts spilt over the top of his thick black belt and short-legged trousers. His shirt hung in tatters about his torso. The smell of blood and fouling meat ripened the air, stinking like a dog trapped beneath the wheel of a heavy cart, left to die upon the road. The candle burnt halfway down which said he had been here for two hours, open-mouthed and gutted.
The hide of his stomach flapped open like a cow’s. Pearly white skin on the outside, peppered with fine black hairs. Thick, red meat on the inside, so rich in blood it seeped and slowly dripped. His stomach sat snugly inside his body cavity, surrounded by sheets of glistening fat.
‘How long will he live?’ I asked, appalled.
Dowling wrung his hands, unable to bear the man’s misery. ‘He should be dead already.’
I walked as close to the body as I dared and placed my mouth quite close to his ear. ‘Can you hear me, Morrison?’
A short gurgle rumbled from the back of his throat.
I turned to Dowling. ‘Can you deliver him from his pain?’
‘It is not my place to kill a man,’ Dowling whispered hoarsely. ‘If it’s God’s will he lives, then live he will, until God decrees otherwise.’
‘If you kill him then it will have been God’s will that you do it,’ I replied. ‘You are the kind of fellow God would choose as his instrument.’
Dowling held his hands together and looked to the wooden beamed ceiling. ‘If it were so then I would feel compelled to do it, which I do not.’
Then I felt compelled. I picked up Morrison’s jacket from the floor and thrust it over his mouth and nose. He hardly attempted to draw breath, but stilled quickly, faint trembling subsiding into calm.
‘Now you should lower his eyelids,’ Dowling said quietly.
I shivered at the sight of his eyes, bulging like they would escape their sockets. ‘I don’t feel compelled to do that.’
The two rats watched from the safety of the wall, waiting patiently for us to leave.
Dowling stepped up to the corpse, happier now it was dead, and closed the eyes himself. ‘Only a devil could provoke such unholy mutilation.’
I agreed. ‘Yet Morrison guarded Wharton at Bedlam. Why would he kill him in such hideous manner?’
‘Because he is a devil,’ Dowling declared. ‘Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the Devil walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’
I shook my head, baffled. ‘He is plagued. Why does he continue to kill?’
Dowling held his hand to his forehead. ‘An ungodly man diggeth up evil and in his lips there is as a burning fire.’
I stared at Morrison, big, round head, hat atop of it. The hat was curiously deformed. I held the peak of it with finger and thumb and gently tugged, which was not enough, so I pulled harder, seizing it with my whole hand to work it loose. There on top of Morrison’s head rested a stone, and beneath the stone a yellow letter.
‘God save us,’ Dowling exclaimed, taking the hat in his hand and rubbing his palm upon the dead man’s hair.
I held the letter to the candle. Liz’s death warrant perhaps.
For the next journey thyselves prepare
To battle with a Nordic king
To a place of worship go ye now
To hear the Bishop’s man vent his spleen.
I handed the letter to Dowling. ‘The Bishop’s man is Boddington or Perkins.’
Dowling scanned the words quickly, horror pulling his face out from all sides. ‘We must go.’ He looked to Morrison. ‘Yet we cannot leave him here.’
I thought of Liz. ‘The bearers will pick him up. We will tell them he has plague, but we must go.’
We stepped away, taking the candle with us. The last thing I saw was the two black rats trotting back to resume their feast.
‘St Olave’s, methinks.’ Dowling wiped an arm across his forehead as we ran. ‘It was once Lucy’s parish church. St Olave’s on Old Jewry, just a few minutes away.’
We ran west towards Poultry, then north up Old Jewry. St Olave’s was a modest church, with small graveyard, big door at front and little door at back. It did not take us long to discover both were locked. We walked about the building two more times yet could find no other entrance.
‘What test has he set us this time?’ I exclaimed, frustrated.
‘God in Heaven!’ Dowling kicked at the wall, savage. He punched himself on the chest. ‘There are three St Olave’s in London!’
‘Of course,’ I realised, feeling foolish.
‘Lord save us,’ he muttered. ‘The others are at Silver Street and Hart Street.’
‘Silver Street is closer,’ I calculated. Which it was, but the two churches could not have been further apart. Silver Street was west, close to Cripplegate, while Hart Street was east, not far from Aldgate. ‘It makes sense to go to the closest first,’ I thought aloud. ‘Yet my instinct tells me Hart Street.’
‘Why so?’ Dowling asked.
‘The church at Silver Street is as small as this one, and Wharton has a preference for the grander stage,’ I replied. ‘Hart Street is at the end of Seething Lane, where Willis lives.’
Dowling set off brisk. I followed him, silent, attempting to cast from my mind a picture of Liz in the same predicament as Morrison. We arrived in ten minutes, immediately heartened by the sight of the door stood ajar.
‘More candles,’ Dowling remarked as we entered. We were surrounded by light, hundreds of dancing flames. We proceeded slowly down the centre aisle, footsteps loud against the flagstones.
‘Stop!’ a strangulated voice screeched. There at the pulpit stood William Perkins.
I took another step forward at which Perkins began to behave in an extraordinary manner. He began to recite Ecclesiastes and did so most extremely loud and fast.
‘All things have I seen in the days of my vanity: there is a just man that perisheth in his righteousness, and there is a wicked man that prolongeth his life in his wickedness.’
He read the words almost in a scream, beseeching us with his eyes, though beseeching us to do what? Then I saw he was naked, at least the bit of him that we could see. His skin was white, like uncooked pastry, with irregular blotches of red. He continued reading from the Bible afront of him, calmer now, but reluctant to take his eye off us for more than a second or two.
‘Everyone we meet appears to be insane,’ I whispered.
Dowling squinted into the gloom. ‘He is anxious about something.’
I took another step forward, evoking the same passionate reaction from Perkins. He recited the text with such animated ferocity it was clear he would use other words if he could. When I took a step back his intensity diminished.
‘He does not move his hands,’ Dowling observed. His hands were placed either side of the lectern upon which he stood, but were just hidden from sight. At some point he would need to turn a page.
‘He does not wish us to approach him.’ I stepped to one side, determining to rest my body, parts of which were gone to sleep; but again he began to squeak and screech with eyes that begged.
‘So he would not have us approach him, nor be seated,’ I concluded. ‘Let us see if we are free to move back the way we came.’ When I stepped backwards his face shone a deep shade of crimson.
‘Look ye.’ Dowling pointed to the floor. ‘We are in a circle.’ It was not a circle, but a star, marked in red paint, the same colour that these days signified pestilence and sin.
I sidled towards the boundary of it, while trying to make it look as if I stood still. ‘How can he see from there whether we be in it or no?’
‘He is focussed on a marker,’ Dowling replied impatiently. ‘These three pews, for example, and on ensuring we do not stray from the aisle.’
Was someone about to drop some great weight upon us, or pour boiling oil over our heads? There was nothi
ng above us other than the ceiling.
‘Perkins,’ I shouted.
He just kept reading. ‘I applied mine heart to know, and to search, and to seek out wisdom, and the reason of things, and to know the wickedness of folly, even of foolishness and madness.’
‘If you do not talk to us, then I will turn around and leave you here!’ I shouted again. It made no difference, though I thought I detected an extra note of despondency in his voice.
‘This is absurd,’ I complained, exasperated. ‘We have to find Liz.’
‘Ah!’ Dowling raised a finger many minutes later. ‘He recites Chapter Eight, Verse Fifteen again.’
We stood quiet a while listening to the cleric read. I squinted into the shadows, where someone might lurk with gun or bow. ‘Whatever he is scared of, where could it be?’
‘He would duck and bend his knees if it was from afar.’
I turned to the jabbering cleric once again. ‘Then there must be someone up there with him.’ I peered forward, searching for any sign of movement. ‘Perhaps we should run forward and attempt to reach him afore any might harm him. If someone is there, they will have to leave by one door or other, and the vestry door is shut.’
‘Though it is but a short distance from lectern to vestry and the killer may have unlocked the door.’ Dowling sounded doubtful.
‘Then one of us should run to the vestry and one to Perkins,’ I suggested.
‘Or we wait until morning.’
It was a grim prospect. ‘In which case the killer might strike at any time while we be asleep and Liz might die.’
‘If we rush forward, which I know is your preference, we must rush quick,’ Dowling whispered.
‘Then I will rush towards Perkins and you run to the vestry door.’
‘Nay.’ Dowling shook his head. ‘I will go to Perkins.’
Perkins watched us keenly. ‘Lo, this only I have found, that God hath made man upright.’
It was thirty long paces from where we stood to the lectern afore us. Candles had been placed further from this side of the church and closer to the main entrance so the door to the vestry was barely visible.
‘Ready?’ Dowling growled.
‘Aye.’
Perkins watched us with darting eyes. He stumbled on his words then concentrated on reading faster.
Dowling and I counted to three together, quietly, then dashed forwards. As soon as we moved, Perkins screamed at the top of his voice, a shattering shriek. His body jerked taut, back arched, and this before we took barely two steps. It was difficult to tear my eyes from him, and when I did, the vestry door was open. I flung myself into the black room. I dimly made out the shape of the door to the street, and launched myself forward, catching my knee upon the edge of a solid table. The door was locked and the key was in the lock.
I returned to the lectern, where awaited a horrible sight. Perkin’s head was flung back, eyes tight shut, teeth clamped hard together in bare grimace. Though his groin was thrust forward against the lectern, his fleshy white buttocks hung down in four rippling waves. It was like the rump of a great bullock and from that rump protruded a black iron stake, about which poured a river of rose-red blood.
Dowling turned towards me and held out a short heavy hammer. His grey bagged eyes were wet and tearful. ‘He is still alive.’
‘Not for long,’ I assured him. There was too much blood creeping steadily towards my feet. ‘Did you see who did it?’
‘No.’ Dowling looked aghast. ‘Was he not in the vestry?’
‘No.’ I shook my head angrily. ‘You sure you saw nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
Damn fish teeth. Our killer was cleverer than us and more confident. He had known what we would do, known that we would leave the main door free, known that the sight of his handiwork would render us incapable.
‘What next?’ I turned wearily to the lectern, unable to resist another glance at the spike. In front of his falling thighs was empty space, beneath his feet nothing. Betwixt the pages of the Bible? I reached forward, avoiding the touch of the dead man’s skin, turned the page and found another yellow letter. Stepping close to a candle, I read aloud.
Now King David was old and stricken in years,
And they covered him with clothes from the King’s
Wardrobe, but he gat no heat.
Wherefore his servants said unto him,
Let there be sought for my lord the king a young virgin,
And let her stand before the king, and let her cherish him,
And let her lie in thy bosom, that my lord the king may get heat.
‘What direction is this?’ I felt like screwing it into a ball and throwing it. ‘Why can he not simply tell us where to go?’
‘He does.’ Dowling took the letter from me. ‘This is from the first book of Kings with four words inserted; “from the King’s Wardrobe”.’
We exchanged sombre stare. I recalled Wharton’s mocking laugh when he talked of trust. ‘This is why he abducted Liz Willis,’ I realised. ‘So we have no choice but to follow his instruction.’
Dowling’s eye leaked a thin, yellow pus. ‘No choice then.’ He turned on his heel and headed for the door.
‘What of the rest of the letter?’ I hurried after him. ‘What does it signify?’
‘I don’t know, Harry,’ Dowling replied. ‘Unless we are about to discover an old lord being cherished by a virgin.’
‘Lord Arlington perhaps?’ I wondered aloud, much to Dowling’s disgust.
It was a long walk. Candles burnt low in the windows, and the streets were silent, save for the sound of our own footsteps. With all our recent exposure to the dead and dying, it was a sobering thought that still the plague had yet to truly infiltrate the City. I saw enough these last few days to imagine what life would soon be like for those who remained. How right Jane had been. I wondered if she lived still, then felt fresh pangs of guilt and fear that I had not managed to see her that day.
At last we reached the Wardrobe. Two new sentries guarded the front door, awake and alert. Were Forman and Withypoll sleeping?
‘Look at the door,’ Dowling whispered hoarsely. ‘It is marked with the cross.’
A big, red cross, indeed, bright and fresh. Perhaps God was more discerning than I gave Him credit for.
Dowling puffed out his chest and spoke to the sky. ‘Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’ He stepped out in full view of the sentries and marched towards them. I followed.
The sentries pretended not to notice us until we approached close. They glared, stony-faced.
‘May we enter?’ I asked, half expecting some unknown magic to open the door and transport us across the threshold.
‘Why would ye want to enter?’ asked one. ‘Have ye not seen the cross?’
‘Methinks we have been summoned,’ I explained.
‘By who?’ the guard snorted.
‘By they that are in there.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Forman and Withypoll.’
The guard shoved me backwards, angry. ‘Forman and Withypoll are gone. There is but one man behind these doors and he is not receiving visitors. Be on your way.’
Dowling fetched his credentials. ‘We are King’s men.’
‘There is no credential says I should allow you to enter the Wardrobe when it be cursed with plague. The only one that may enter here is the medic.’
At which point the clouds parted and the light shone through. Wharton knew I had the medic’s robes.
An hour later I trudged back down the Old Change, Dowling at my side. My head floated light and porous while my stomach weighed heavy and sick. It was not far away, the hour of waking, yet we were still living the day already gone.
It was clear I must enter alone, but we decided Dowling would wait as close as he might without attracting the sentries’ attentions. I walked the last fifty yards with as purposeful a step as I could muster. The sentrie
s had their own torches by which light I saw their suspicious faces once I approached close. I could read the mouth of one that wanted to know why I did not arrive by coach as usual, but I pretended not to understand and tapped a finger against my ear. Another made a sign that I take off my hood, but I waggled my finger and shook my head. While they dawdled I stepped forward and opened the door.
Soft moonlight shone through high windows, bathing the wood-panelled walls. A fiery torch blazed in a holder upon the wall, creating sinister shadows. Was it for me, I wondered? I removed my mask, dropping it upon a small, yellow table with thin, carved legs. I took the torch and approached the double doors opposite. Beyond was an ornate dining room, with long oak table and sturdy upholstered chairs. Drapes hung about the walls, long and golden, all very French. I watched myself walk past a mirror spanning floor to ceiling, encased in gilded frame. I felt lonely and exposed, heard my footsteps echo too loud, reverberating about the whole house. I imagined Wharton’s ears pricking, saw him scuttle silently towards me, to pounce, to subject me to the same barbarity he inflicted on others. I hurried back the way I came.
Back in the hallway something slipped beneath my feet. I looked down to find a flower petal, several in fact, scattered about the floor. Red rose petals, fresh and recently dispersed. I held up the torch to see they marked a trail, leading across the hall and out towards the wide staircase.
I trod graceful as a blind bear. No matter how soft I placed my feet, my footsteps tapped loud against the tiled floor. All else I could hear was the noise of my own laboured breathing.
The staircase wound upwards in a long, square spiral, red petals upon ancient wooden treads that creaked as I climbed. I followed the way down a corridor leading long and straight. The doors to either side were closed, the door direct ahead stood ajar. The petals led all the way to the end.
A Plague of Sinners Page 24