Rags of Time

by Michael Ward

  Stone Face’s words ran through his head: “You will live to regret this. That I swear on my solemn oath.” My God, the man was exacting his revenge, but at what price! Why mutilate the young boy? The severed hand had been a message, but of what? Even if Matty was now dead, he must find his body for a Christian burial, and find answers to these questions.

  He peered down Shovel Alley. It was empty with high walls stretching either side into the mist. Tom crept forward and saw wooden doors to his left and right. He gently tried the first. Locked. The second was also locked, and the third. He could now see the alley ended in a small courtyard. There was no other way out. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled.

  He tried the next door on the right. The hinges creaked but the door was stuck at the bottom. Cursing the noise, Tom checked the entrance to the alley. All was clear. His breath clouded in the damp morning air as he put his shoulder and leg against the door and pushed again with all his weight.

  The door scraped across the ground and opened six inches. The smell of death hit him. He closed the door, stepped back into the alley and took a deep breath. His heart pounding, he pushed it hard again, prizing it further open, enough to shuffle sideways through the gap.

  A rotting corpse lay at his feet. Putting his handkerchief to his mouth, Tom looked closer. It was a mastiff, a giant of a dog, lying on its side against the inside of the door, with a wide, putrid wound running the length of its decaying right flank.

  He was in a small yard, surrounded on three sides by high walls. In front was a three-storey brick tenement in poor repair. The ground was choked with rubbish—old barrels, a broken handcart, pieces of brick and wood. The house looked empty. If so, given its position, the dog must have died after the last person left, otherwise how could they have made their exit through the door? But who would leave a dog in such a condition? Tom began to doubt this could be Matty’s lodgings but, having worked so hard to get in, he was not leaving without investigating further. He pushed the door closed and turned towards the building. It was typical of the dwellings in the area, mean and run down. He picked his way through the rubbish to peer through the grime on the ground floor window. A low-ceilinged room contained rough furniture, a table, chairs and an empty fireplace, but little else. Tom tried the front door which opened. The house was silent. He waited a moment before stepping inside. He stopped again and listened. Nothing. He walked silently into the back parlour which was bare save for a wooden pail for gathering water. Light filtered into the room from the open staircase by the back wall.

  Tom looked up the stairs, listening carefully. He began to climb. The first step creaked under his weight. Another step, another creak. He heard rapid movement above him. He took another step and two shapes flew at him from the top step, all teeth and thick, thrashing tails. Rats, fat and black, landed three steps in front of him. Before Tom could move, they leapt again, straight at him.

  The taut, heavy body of the first hit his right leg. The second bounced off the side wall and onto his chest, squealing and scrabbling, before tumbling past him onto the pantry floor. Tom spun around to see both rats loping towards the front room. He gasped and sprinted up the remaining steps two at a time. He reached the room at the top and tumbled through the open doorway, sinking to his knees on the bare dusty floorboards.

  The body of Matthew Morris was sitting on the floor in a corner of the room, his head leaning forward. His shirt was stained dark crimson across both shoulders, his black sightless eyes staring at the dusty floorboards. His right hand, clenched in a fist, was resting in his lap. His left arm was stretched in front of him, beckoning Tom to join him. Only there was no hand, just a torn sleeve, ripped and matted with blood. Fragments of bloodied cloth and flesh were scattered around the floor. His stomach heaved.

  He touched Matty’s cheek. It felt like dusty marble. Tom looked for the source of the blood on his shirt and noticed the blond hair behind Matty’s left ear was thick with congealed gore. He had been hit from behind. Tom studied Matty’s face. Awful as it was, he did not want to look away. This would be the last time he would ever see him. His mind flashed: Matty’s staring eyes, a small wet hand reaching above the water, Matty’s empty gaze, the hand gone. Everything lost.

  He knelt and prayed over the corpse, his whispered words echoing through the silent house. Tears fell freely from his face to congeal in the dust on the floor. Finally he moved forward to kiss Matty on the top of his head, and felt a sharp pain under his knee. He lifted his leg and saw a piece of wood, stained yellow on the floor. He turned it in his fingers and saw one side intricately carved with the letter “T”. He studied the small printer’s block, unable to take in what he was seeing. Then he quickly lifted Matty’s right leg, where his knee had been resting, and felt underneath its length. A second block. He patted the pocket of his breeches and felt a lump. A third piece—also stained yellow.

  Panic was growing in Tom’s chest. Stone Face must have set a trap, to link Tom to the Dutch press, and a murder for good measure, and he had walked right into it. However, a trap only worked if you were caught. My God, had someone been watching him enter the house? Was Wilmot from the Stationers’ Company in Shovel Alley at that moment? Tom pocketed the printer’s blocks and feverishly surveyed the room for any more. His eyes rested on Matty’s right hand curled tightly in a fist. He knelt down and held the stiff fingers. Sam had been right. They were untouched by the scars of life. Tom felt something inside the fist and gently prised the fingers open. Tears again flowed. He pulled at the threads of a piece of fabric and his sister Ellen’s familiar handwriting appeared. Slowly Tom unravelled the neck verse from Matty’s dead grasp.

  Despair and anger coursed through him. Matty had kept his verse close until the very end. It had saved him once… the Tallants had saved him once. Faced with death again, it was his only defence. His talisman, his hope of better things. He would have grasped it with all his might. Miserere mei, Deus… O God, Have mercy upon me. But this time no one answered his call. No one came, until it was too late. Tom had failed him, just as he had failed his young brother Matty on that frozen lake. Misery enveloped him, kneeling in the room, bereft of purpose, his willpower extinguished. He stumbled to his feet and wandered back and forwards, his body wracked by deep, overwhelming sobs.

  Slowly the tears ceased and Tom looked around him. He brushed a tangle of cobwebs from the window and peered outside. To his left he could see over the yard wall to Shovel Alley. To his right, a corner of the courtyard at the end of the alley. The huge body of the dead mastiff lay in the yard directly beneath him.

  His body stiffened. Voices, young voices, and a man shouting. He saw two boys run along the alley away from him, towards its entrance. They ducked out of view and re-emerged in the same spot. And then again. He realised they were bending down, picking up stones to throw.

  The boys turned tail and ran, laughing. Tom moved away from the window. He could not be found with Matty’s body. If he did not escape the building unseen, his life could be over. A movement outside made Tom turn back to the window. An unmistakable figure appeared, in pursuit of the boys. Nathaniel Franklin, the City Magistrate. Tom flushed with shock. Why was he here? He remembered something Elizabeth had said: ‘There will be a common thread linking these seemingly chaotic events.’ In his worst nightmare he had feared being discovered by Wilmot, never Franklin. Oh, Elizabeth, find me an answer!

  He looked again. Franklin turned out of Shovel Alley in pursuit of his tormenters. Tom glanced for a final time at Matty, arm extended in eternal invitation, before running past his body and down the stairs, three at a time. Franklin would be back in a matter of moments. He must get out of the yard.

  Tom charged through the pantry into the front room. He opened the front door carefully and listened. Nothing, so he walked into the yard. He stepped over the stinking corpse of the mastiff and peered through the small opening in the yard door. No sign of Franklin. Should he step into the alley and make a run for it? It was too dan
gerous. What if he reached the entrance of Shovel Alley as Franklin was returning with a constable, to find his pockets full of the printer’s blocks and the neck verse?

  He closed the door and desperately searched the yard. He took hold of one end of a broken fence post and wedged the other against the ribs of the mastiff and pushed. The end of the post sank into the putrid flesh before holding fast against the animal’s spine. Tom held his breath and pushed hard. Slowly the dog’s carcass slid across the yard floor until it was jammed, once again, against the bottom of the yard gate. The dog’s ribcage was impaled by the post and, keeping it in position, he lowered his end to the floor. He then dragged a large barrel across the yard. No time for silence, as long as he wasn’t seen. Tom rammed the barrel against the end of the fence post and stood back. That should slow Franklin down.

  He scanned the yard again. A broken cart was leaning against the wall to his right. He jumped on it and thrust his body upwards. The cart skewed to one side under his weight and his chest hit the wall, knocking the breath from his body. He gripped the top with both arms and swung his leg over. Keeping low, he scrambled up and, without stopping to look, dropped into the yard next door. Tom tensed himself for a long fall and a hard landing. Neither came. He hit a wooden roof a few feet below and felt himself sliding. Then he was in mid-air again, twisting his body before landing in the yard on all fours. He had bounced off the sloping roof of the yard privy. It did not look strong enough to take his weight but he was glad it had, given the smell seeping under its rough wooden door.

  He remained crouched, listening intently. Unlike next door, the yard was clear except for the privy and a pile of bricks in one corner. He carefully studied the windows in the house facing him. Nothing moved. Then he heard voices getting louder, out in the alley. Franklin.

  ‘That’s the door. Open it.’

  ‘It’s stuck, sir. Locked, I think.’

  ‘Break it open.’

  ‘Should we not try to raise someone first, before we start breaking doors down?’

  ‘What, and let our fugitive know we are coming?’

  Tom realised with relief that Franklin was still hoping to catch him by surprise. That meant he hadn’t been seen climbing over the wall. Tom heard muttered grumbles and a crashing sound, and another.

  ‘Oh my Lord, what a stench! Sir, there’s something dead in the yard. I can smell it.’

  Tom heard the excitement in Franklin’s voice.

  ‘Exactly as I expected. Come on lads, I need to be in that yard… NOW.’

  Seconds later there was another crash, followed by the sound of creaking boards.

  ‘It’s no good, sir. It seems to be stuck fast at the bottom. I think there’s a body behind the door. Ripe, an’ all.’

  There was a pause, then Franklin’s voice.

  ‘Very well, we will have to enter one of the yards on either side and climb over the wall. Tom cursed. What a bloody fool he had been to jam the door so well. Instead of delaying Franklin, it was sending the magistrate towards his hiding place. He pictured Franklin and the constables in the alley, choosing whether to try the door on their right or left. He willed them to go right. He heard a noise outside his yard and stiffened.

  ‘This door’s locked, but it don’t look too strong,’ a voice called.

  ‘Break it, just break it,’ Franklin shouted. Tom panicked. He looked around the empty yard and eyed the privy. Only one place to hide.

  The door from the alley collapsed with a splintering crash and a man fell into Tom’s yard, followed closely by Franklin and another constable.

  ‘Quick. We must see inside that yard next door. One of you get on top of this privy,’ Franklin ordered.

  The first constable cupped his hands in front of him and his companion stepped into the cradled palms. With a push, he vaulted onto the top of the wooden hut. Franklin followed and the constable pulled him up. Tom held his breath as the privy roof creaked and groaned under their weight.

  The magistrate and the constable looked over the wall.

  ‘Told you something was dead. Look at the size of that dog.’

  ‘Yes, but what is it doing there?’ Franklin snapped. ‘Lower me down, I need to take a look.’

  Tom heard scrabbling as the magistrate was lowered into the yard, then silence, broken by the constable on the wall calling to his mate. ‘You should see this dog, Gilbert. Big as a horse, what’s left of it.’

  Gilbert did not answer. Instead, Tom heard a low groan.

  ‘What’s wrong, Gilbert? You in trouble?’

  ‘Damn those whelks. I knew they didn’t smell right. I’m using this privy.’

  Hidden in the gap between the privy and the yard wall, Tom spied the constable through a pinhole. He desperately looked around for some kind of weapon.

  ‘Best be quick, Gilbert. Old fart-face Franklin will be shouting for us again in a minute.’

  Gilbert groaned and the privy door stared to creak open. Tom readied himself.

  ‘Men, men. I need you in this house. NOW.’

  Franklin’s voice, urgent and excited, came from inside the building next door. Tom’s tension eased. He never thought he would be glad to hear Franklin’s sneering tone.

  ‘Told you, Gilbert. You’ll have to hang on.’

  Gilbert stood with the privy door half open. Tom silently cursed and picked up a piece of wood lying at his feet.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Gilbert gasped, and stumbled into the wooden shed.

  ‘Well you will have to answer to Franklin. I’m off.’

  Gilbert’s mate dropped out of view into the yard below. Tom dared not move or breathe, standing inches from discovery as Gilbert banged the thin wall between them, feeling around for the wooden pail. He finally located it and, tearing off his breeches, lowered himself gratefully.

  Tom silently inched his way from the narrow space behind the privy. He stood for a moment and exhaled slowly. Lord, that had been a tight fit. He tip-toed across the yard and stepped over the remains of the shattered door to peer into the alley beyond. It was empty so, dusting off his clothes, Tom walked calmly away, fighting the urge to run as fast as his shaking legs would carry him.

  Ten minutes later he was descending Tower Hill towards Thames Street. The more he considered it, the more he was convinced that Franklin had been tipped off. The magistrate did not try the alley doors in succession. He went straight to the house containing Matty’s body. Could Stone Face have done that? Perhaps he had been caught by Josiah Wilmot from the Stationers’ Company and provided information in return for his freedom? But that was not possible. How did Stone Face find Matty in the first place to murder him, and then set the trap for Tom?

  Tom stopped in mid-stride. Of course… the judge had asked Edmund to read out the address in open court. Anyone could have told Stone Face. One thing was certain: in their hurry to leave, Edmund and he must have missed some of the printer’s blocks at Grub Street.

  Tom felt exhausted and his head ached abominably. He trudged down Thames Street, lost in thought, and straight into the back of a woman, knocking her tray of pies onto the muddy street.

  ‘Oi, Mister. Mind where you’re going. You have ruined my pies. I won’t be able to sell them.’

  ‘Mistress, please excuse my clumsiness. I was not looking where—’

  He stopped and stared past the woman’s shoulder. There, further down Thames Street, standing near the entrance to the Tallant warehouse was the unmistakable figure of Robert Petty.

  Tom picked up the broken pies, careful to keep the woman between him and Petty. He offered them to her.

  ‘No point giving them to me. What can I do with those… oh, thank you very much, sir, most generous. A real gent.’

  She walked off with a skip in her step and a crown in her hand, the first coin Tom could find in his purse to press into her palm. Enough to buy twenty trays of pies. He moved into a shop doorway and studied Petty for five minutes. He was clearly watching the entrance to the warehouse. Tom turned a
nd headed back towards the Tower. He felt a net tightening around him. Where could he go? First he must get beyond the city walls before the guards on gate duty were given his description by Franklin. He cut up Water Lane onto Tower Street. The nearest way through the walls was Aldgate, to the east of Fenchurch Street, leading into Whitechapel. He walked briskly along Mark Lane and right into Crutched Friers. His plan, such as it existed, was to mingle with others waiting to enter the gatehouse. With luck, the tide of people would carry him through unnoticed.

  Tom put his head down and walked as quickly as he could along the curving length of Poor Jewry. He could not get the picture of Matty’s dead, empty eyes out of his thoughts. He shook himself and tried to think of the boy’s face when alive, his determined expression as he protested his innocence: ‘I didn’t take nothing. I didn’t take nothing.’ Tom fell into repeating the phrase as he walked, to keep the image of Matty’s death mask at bay. His voice kept time with his rapid footsteps. ‘I did not take no-thing… I did not take no-thing.’ His steps slowed. ‘I… did… not… take…’ Tom looked up and felt the boy was close. He stopped and, for the second time that day, prayed for Matty’s forgiveness.

  How could he be so stupid? The boy had tried to tell him the truth time and again, but Tom had not listened. Matty had not gone to the warehouse to take anything. No, he was sent there to leave something… pieces of printer’s type that would link Tom to the Scottish Press. Someone had told Matty to break in and leave the type hidden in the warehouse, likely under the sack of cinnamon in his hand when Isaac caught him. That person would tip off Josiah Wilmot who would raid Tom’s warehouse.

  Tom considered the timing of this and deduced it must be Stone Face. At that time Jermyn believed the Scottish Press was finished and Tom was very much in his favour. It would have been pointless for Jermyn to implicate Tom at that moment. He remembered the printer’s eyes. Black and hard as coal. Yes, he was capable of any and all of this. What else did he have in store for Tom?