A scream rent the air, shrill and piercing. Dowling made a sequence of foul noises like he was kissing himself. I tugged the jacket from his face and prodded him in the ribs. He opened his eyes and stared about him, disoriented. I wriggled forwards, deeper into the hedge, to seek from where the noise came. Two men in the cage climbed to their feet, stood with their hands clutching the bars, staring towards the church.
A slight figure appeared at the far side of the pond, running from the canopied track that led east, naked body white against the grey surroundings. She ran with arms held out straight as if she sought to rid herself of her own hands. When she saw the gibbets she stopped, staring with wild eyes, body jerking in rhythm with her staccato cries. Then she screamed again and leapt into the pond.
Two figures ran out of the woods behind her, Elks and the bald man we met earlier that day. They stopped at the edge of the pond where the woman stood up to her waist splashing water upon her chest, face contorted in agonised grimace. A third figure lumbered slow behind, short stumpy legs struggling beneath a hulking torso, rope curled about his shoulder. The giant Marshall Howe, wearing but a thin shirt with sleeves rolled up as far as they would go. He reminded me of Dowling.
Dowling fidgeted. ‘If they don’t pull her out soon she’ll die of cold.’
I had seen the symptoms too many times before. ‘She will die of plague before she dies of cold.’
Elks laid a hand upon the bald man’s shoulder before turning to Marshall Howe. He talked quickly while Howe listened, head bowed. Then the giant nodded and let the rope from his shoulder fall to the floor. He tied one end into a noose then waded out into the water behind the woman. He paused a moment before lowering the rope over her head and jerking it tight. She fell backwards, clutching at her throat. Howe pushed her head down into the pond while she kicked and splashed. When the thrashing ceased, Howe stood up straight and attempted to pull her onto the bank. He reached halfway, breathing heavily, before turning for help. The bald man stepped gingerly into the water to join him, taking a piece of rope from Howe’s huge hands. They then pulled together, tugging hard, digging their heels into the soft mud. At last they succeeded, jerking the corpse from the bottom of the pond where it must have got stuck, depositing it onto the grass.
The whole world fell silent, holding its breath in disbelief. I blinked and waited for the corpse to move. Dowling stared, white-faced, jaw loose. What could we have done to prevent it? It happened too quick. My heart was beating so hard it would explode.
Howe picked up the rope from where he dropped it and pulled her dead body along the grass towards the forest. Elks pushed a lock of lank hair behind his ear, touched the bald man on the shoulder, and headed after Howe. The bald man headed off in the opposite direction towards Fiddler’s Bridge. The sky seemed to sigh, casting upon us another degree of light. We witnessed a savage murder, no less, whatever their casual demeanour.
Dowling clambered to his feet. ‘We follow.’
I took his lead, head heavy with lack of sleep and numbed shock. I had no desire to follow Elks lest it was to find out where he lived, but could find no words to debate the case.
We paused at the stile afore hurrying about the perimeter of the pond. Two clerics stood at the bars of the cage, their heaving sobs betraying the shattered ruins of their faith. Dowling didn’t spare them even a glance, marching forward with grim determination.
Howe and Elks were easy to follow, the steady slithering of the corpse upon the forest floor marking their journey. We followed at a distance, sticking to the early morning shadow at the side of the path. Daylight stabbed through the treetops as if searching for the perpetrators of the terrible sin.
Halfway to Buxton’s house the noise stopped. Elks said something to Howe afore disappearing into the trees to our left and Howe resumed his steady trudge up the main track. We ran to the point where Elks departed, as fast as we could without making a noise, not daring to attract Howe’s attentions. I put my fingers in my ears, unable to bear the sound of the woman’s feet bumping off tree roots and broken branches.
At last we reached the bend. The path to our left wound down through thick undergrowth like a ribbon, between beech tree and birch, into a gloomy basin where the young, morning light struggled to penetrate. We stepped down the hill as fast as we could, wary now we had no sense where Elks might be. A branch hit me hard across the forehead.
Dowling walked faster, nose thrust forward like a sniffing dog. He pointed out a narrow opening in the undergrowth I would scarce have noticed, a narrow track sheltered by giant fern. ‘He turned off again here,’ he whispered.
‘How do you know?’ I asked.
‘He is headed towards Isaak Wilson’s house,’ Dowling replied. ‘The house sits another hundred paces down this path, and Wilson died twelve months ago.’
‘The plague found him here?’
‘Don’t talk of the plague,’ Dowling snapped, voice tight.
My foot slipped upon the rolling earth and I nearly fell, grasping at Dowling to stop myself falling.
‘You walk like an infant,’ Dowling growled, righting me roughly then letting me go. ‘Be mindful, else he will hear you.’
I clenched my jaw and concentrated on the ground beneath my feet, paying attention to the roots protruding from the dirt. At last the ground flattened. We came to the edge of a small clearing, in the middle of which stood another stone house and two wooden outhouses. Elks was gone, but light shone from the main window.
‘Isaak Wilson’s house,’ Dowling muttered. ‘With someone else’s candle in the window.’
We burrowed into the thick undergrowth, easing our way through the clutching bramble. Elks had not had the dog with him, I realised, heart suddenly cold. Was the dog here? It couldn’t be; why would he have left it at the house? He must have been on his way home when he came across the affected woman. The dog would be at the barricades with the other wardens. I prayed it was so and made extra effort to tread silently.
We found a trunk so thick we could both lean against it. The candle danced, flickered and eventually died. Colours came to life as the sun climbed high, and the earth warmed up. I fell asleep, at last, head rested against Dowling’s heavy shoulder.
I woke alone, lain upon my side, hungry. Sitting bolt upright I looked for Dowling, finding only flattened ground, cold to the touch. Staggering to my feet I saw the house through the hedge. To my left now led a long trail of flattened gorse, lined on either side by low bushes, branches broken off and snapped by a beast the size of a great bull. I followed the trail of debris and found Dowling stood next to a tree, peering towards the back of the house.
‘Is he in there?’ I whispered, stretching my stiff limbs.
‘Aye,’ said Dowling. ‘He stirred himself a few minutes ago. I reckon he’s about to leave.’
‘What else have you found?’
Dowling rubbed his neck. ‘One of the outhouses is derelict, the other is secured with a new lock.’ He turned. ‘Move. Back to where we were. Quickly.’ He pushed me up the path, towards the giant tree trunk.
The door opened and Elks strode forth, swinging a club like he expected to use it, brown hair hanging heavy about his ears, long face bereft of mercy. He looked fresh and well rested, full of vigorous intent. I tucked myself deeper into the cover as he strode past, up the slope and away into the woods. Once he was gone I shuffled to my feet and forced myself to stand straight.
‘He won’t be gone long,’ I predicted. ‘He’ll go straight to Buxton’s house to check on us. When he finds us gone he’ll track us down with his dogs.’
‘If Josselin is here, then he is in the outhouse,’ said Dowling. He led the way to a low wooden building without windows, wide heavy door bolted from the outside.
‘Built strong,’ I remarked, rubbing my hand against the rough planks.
‘Aye,’ Dowling agreed, ‘but a long time ago.’ He pulled at the padlock, a squat heavy beast with a flap over the keyhole. ‘The lock is strong, but
not the hinges.’
He let the lock drop against the door and pointed to the top hinge, a simple dovetail with six screws, all rusted. The wood was brittle and dry. ‘We just need a lever.’
He strode across the clearing to the house. No lock to contend with here, for the door was open. The air was musty, the light poor. A heavy table occupied the middle of the room, with four chairs, three of which sat flush against the side of it. Of more interest were the two loaves of bread and a plate of dried beef.
I poked my head into the back room while chewing. Elks wasn’t a clean man. A chamber pot stood full in the middle of the floor and the bed stank most foul.
Dowling turned from the unlit fireplace with a poker in his hand. ‘Here.’
‘What will we find?’ I wondered aloud, approaching the outhouse once more.
‘There is little point in guessing.’ Dowling sighed. ‘Though if Wilson died without releasing his animals, we should be able to smell it from Shyam. I reckon this is Elks’ work.’
He stabbed at the wood about the top hinge with the end of the poker. I prayed it wouldn’t take long, still fearful of Elks and his dogs. Nor did it, for Dowling worked in a mad frenzy, chopping at a crack in the door with the blunt iron bar until it widened enough for him to jam the poker in and tear the wood apart. Once the top hinge was loose, he prised the door far enough away from the jamb to grip it in his hands. He pulled with all his weight, grunting red-faced. When the bottom hinge gave way with a shriek, we were through, into another pocket of Hell.
The room was bare, floor strewn with rotting straw, tiny shards of light providing scant illumination from between the weathered planks. At the end of the room squatted a man, chained to a low iron bar running the width of the outhouse, in front of two long troughs.
‘Mind the hole,’ he grinned, wrists manacled to his waist, nodding to our right. ‘That is to be my grave.’
Someone had dug a large hole, six feet long and a yard across.
He leant forwards, legs crossed, naked body filthy, the tip of his yard resting limp against the straw. A chain connected the iron band at his waist to a four-foot iron bar. The stench of piss and faeces soaked the air. He stared with bright eyes, mouth fixed in a broad smile, sinister and humourless. Long dark hair hung wet about his shoulders and plastered his forehead, yet the eyes burnt.
I took care not to approach closer than the length of the chain. ‘Your grave, you say?’
‘Aye,’ he replied, leery. ‘Elks dug it for me. He thinks the sight of it will drive me mad.’ He snorted. ‘I enjoyed watching him dig it. The ground is hard.’
‘You are James Josselin?’ I surmised.
He nodded. ‘And you are spies.’
Unfolded he would stand uncommonly tall, I reckoned, more than six feet. Or perhaps he just seemed that way because he was so awfully thin. His ribs stood out like the claws of a demon. I looked about for signs of food and water, but found none.
‘When did you last eat?’ I asked.
‘A week ago,’ Josselin replied. ‘The devil doesn’t feed me. I suck straw for water.’ I felt my guts churn, for the straw was yellow and soft, weeks old and creeping with insects.
The flesh about his eyes and cheeks was purple and blue. A long ugly welt wound its way from below his ribcage to beneath his arm. Someone had kicked him, else beaten him with a stick. He eyed Dowling’s poker like it was an old adversary.
‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.
‘Since I came,’ Josselin replied. ‘Elks was first to meet me. My bad luck.’ He stared at me once more, small brown eyes unmoving, lips drawn back to reveal bright white teeth. The flesh about his wrists was red and festering and he smelt like he was rotting. This, then, was the ‘great man’.
I pulled from my pocket a hunk of bread I was saving for later. He took it with grace and chewed, unhurried. He squinted. ‘Methinks you came to fetch me back to London, but you cannot take me back.’ He held up his chained wrists. ‘Less you have the key.’ He laughed, a sad abrasive noise tinged with lunacy. ‘Did Arlington send you here, or was it Clarendon?’
I tried not to gaze upon his genitals.
‘Why say you Arlington or Clarendon?’ Dowling demanded, wandering dangerously close.
Josselin eyed Dowling out the corner of his eye. ‘Arlington says I betrayed England to the Dutch. Clarendon is the most determined to make peace.’
‘We work for Arlington,’ I said. ‘Though not willingly. He says you killed your best friend.’
Josselin breathed slow and steady through his nose, his face turning a violent shade of crimson. He clambered painfully to his feet and stood erect, bashed and bruised, covered in a thick layer of dirt and sweat. I edged backwards. Though his arms were chained to his waist, still I feared the look in his eyes. I didn’t trust him not to bite me.
He shuffled forwards, as far as the chains would allow and jerked his wrists away from his iron girdle, succeeding only in making them bleed. ‘I am not a traitor nor a murderer.’ He let his head roll back and stared at the ceiling, stood silent, trembling.
‘We found your book,’ I said nervously. ‘On the way to Shyam.’
‘My book?’ He lowered his chin and blinked. ‘You have my book?’
‘I do,’ I remembered, digging into the folds of my jacket.
‘Keep it,’ he snapped. ‘Charlatan words writ by devious agents. Believe nothing you read.’
‘You circled passages pertaining to the Dutch.’
‘The book is written by a charlatan. It tells of the demise of the Dutch forces.’ He stepped towards me, restrained only by the chain. ‘Ask yourself why the Dutch must fall.’
‘We are at war,’ I replied, bewildered. ‘Of course the Dutch must fall.’
Josselin bared his teeth. ‘And why did Charles have to die?’
I blinked ‘Berkshire? I don’t know why he had to die. Arlington said you killed him.’
‘My best friend,’ he said, clenching his fists. ‘Why did I kill my best friend?’
‘Do you know who did?’ I asked, nervous.
‘Aye, I know,’ he replied. ‘At least I know who ordered it.’ He clamped his mouth closed and glared.
Dowling took another step closer. ‘Everyone has told us what you did in Colchester when you were a child,’ he said.
I cursed him silently for distracting Josselin. I wanted to know who killed Berkshire, not listen to old stories, embellished and reembellished with the passing of two decades.
Josselin bowed his head. ‘Josselin the hero,’ he said. ‘Who tried to save Colchester from the barbaric hordes of General Fairfax.’ He nodded to himself. ‘You know Fairfax still lives? Black Tom. Forgiven all his trespasses because he helped Monck bring the King out of exile.’ He clenched his fists again and grimaced, a thick blood vessel standing prominent upon his brow. ‘My mother was one of the five hundred brave women that pleaded for food, once the soap and candles ran out,’ he said. ‘They stripped her of her clothes like the other four hundred and ninety-nine. Then they chased her about the fields on horseback until at last they allowed them to return inside the town walls. Most of them, anyway.’
‘They say you didn’t talk even when they tortured you.’
Josselin sucked the air in through his teeth then closed his eyes. ‘They said they would hang me unless I told them the message I carried and who it was for.’
‘You were just a boy,’ I exclaimed. ‘Any boy would have confessed it, any man would have confessed it. They were soldiers that tortured you.’
‘I know who they were,’ Josselin murmured, eyes tight closed. ‘And I saw what they did. I would have told them the message the moment they asked, but I forgot it.’ His eyes were moist. ‘Each time they held a match to my finger I begged them to stop, but they would not.’
I looked at his hands. The skin on his fingertips was ridged and rutted, like the landlady said.
‘You are a hero to these people,’ I said. ‘Every man in Essex talks of
you with fondness.’
‘I don’t know these people,’ Josselin retorted. ‘I was a child. I left when I was a young man. They say I am a hero because I wouldn’t speak, yet I knew not what to say. They are not interested in the truth. Not now, not then.’
‘Then why did you come here?’
‘To escape Arlington,’ he replied. ‘I knew he wouldn’t follow, not into Shyam.’
Now he stood naked in a cowshed wrapped in chains, deep in the heart of plague country.
‘Who killed Berkshire?’ I asked.
A dog barked, close by. I turned to Dowling. ‘Elks!’
Josselin again strained to pull his wrists away from the chain that bound them to his waist, roaring with frustration and pain. The iron cut into his flesh, releasing a fresh tide of blood and pus to pour over the palms of his hands.
‘Come!’ I urged Dowling. ‘It’s our scent they are following.’
‘We cannot leave him here,’ Dowling protested.
‘We’ll come back,’ I hissed. I raced towards the forest, then stopped and cut back, running across the track that led from the village, diving into a low cluster of bracken.
‘What are you doing?’ Dowling demanded, panting, towering above me. ‘You think the dogs won’t find you?’
‘Lie down!’ I croaked, hoarse, burying my head. The barking was close now.
He lowered himself gracelessly to the ground, grumbling.
‘We won’t escape the dogs,’ I whispered. ‘There is no point in running. I want to see what Elks does.’
Dowling frowned and shook his head as the first of our pursuers burst into the clearing. It was Elks, black dog straining at its leash before him. He flicked at his lank hair with one hand, glowering at the broken outhouse door. He scanned the clearing quickly afore hurrying to the barn, allowing his dog to pull him forwards. Staring into the black void, he jerked back the leash, refusing the hound liberty to prowl further. Then the dog found our new scent and tried to pull away again, but Elks held his ground. Four more men arrived, three dogs between them, yapping loud in their desire to be let loose, strangulated barking peppered with intermittent squeals.
Hearts of Darkness Page 15