A Plague of Sinners (10 page)

Dowling gave a brief wave and was gone.

I walked slowly east. A heavy smoke drifted north on a wind off the river. I supposed the soap boilers and brewers still worked as busy as ever.

An arm draped itself about my shoulder. ‘Where are you headed, Harry?’ A handsome young face looked down upon me, twisted in complacent stone-eyed viciousness. He wore a beaver hat upon his head.

The older man appeared at my other shoulder, smiling broadly, dark eyes shining bright from beneath long lashes. ‘I am Forman, and this is Withypoll.’

I tried to look behind for Dowling, but they wouldn’t let me turn. The one with the fair hair, Withypoll, squeezed me so I hard I thought my shoulder would crack. ‘You followed us yesterday, you followed us today, yet you claim not to be a spy.’

Forman stopped at the door of The Three Cranes. ‘We want to talk to you.’

The Three Cranes tavern was a doghole. ‘Here?’

‘Yes, Harry, here.’ Forman shoved me forward. ‘We require only a few minutes of your valuable time.’

The folks in here were dirty and malodorous; dockers, sailors and lightermen mostly. We had been at war with the Dutch since March. The shipyards were busy and yet the King had not the money to pay. Everyone was in arrears. Men grew anxious and resentful, inclined to fight anyone that moved or spoke.

Forman pushed me ahead, straight into the barrel-chested taverner. A drip hung from the end of his red nose, which, I reflected, must occasionally fall into the drinks he served. He ran his eye over our fine clothes, face chiselled of stone.

‘Somewhere private to talk,’ Forman demanded.

The taverner nodded, silent, and hurried us through the inn. The noise reminded me of Bedlam.

‘You stare at me with that fishy eye and I will slice it for thee,’ Withypoll objected to a man who gawped. The taverner jostled the fellow out of our way and steered us towards a quiet room in the back. Withypoll shoved me into a corner and bid me sit. Wall to my right, wall to my back, table in front. Withypoll squeezed in to my left so I couldn’t move. Three mugs of cloudy ale arrived quickly upon the table, and we were left alone.

Forman settled himself opposite and showed his teeth. ‘Now we might talk.’

I took a sip of ale to relieve the dryness of my lips, afore remembering the drip on the taverner’s nose.

‘Did you meet John Tanner?’ Forman asked.

I knew not what to say.

Withypoll stabbed his blade into the table. ‘Forman asked you a question.’

Rage boiled up inside me. How did I allow myself to be so easily trapped? I stared into Forman’s fierce eyes. ‘Yes, I met John Tanner.’

‘Then you know where we planned to hide Burke.’

‘Who do you work for?’ I blurted out.

Forman blinked, and Withypoll chuckled noisily.

‘Lytle,’ Withypoll breathed into my ear. ‘No one was supposed to know Burke was staying with Tanner. It was a secret. Indeed, no one is supposed to know where Tanner lives.’

I sensed the violence lurking behind the toothy smile. ‘I am trying to find out who killed Thomas Wharton. Burke is the
main suspect and so we followed him.’ I dared catch his eye a moment. ‘Not you, not John Tanner.’

Withypoll leant back, puffed out his chest, then exhaled deeply. ‘You need not worry who killed Thomas Wharton, Lytle, for we will discover that for ourselves. All we seek from you is confirmation you work for Lord Arlington.’

And what then? ‘Why should I tell you that when you tell me nothing?’

Withypoll pointed to his knife, still stuck upright in the table. ‘Because if you don’t tell me then I shall cut David Dowling’s throat.’

I clenched my fists, holding on to the last crumbs of courage. ‘It is no secret.’

‘I wonder why he chose you and the butcher,’ Withypoll mused, stroking his chin. ‘Evidently he thought little of it, assumed Burke was guilty. Unless.’

‘Unless what?’

‘Unless Arlington arranged for Wharton’s death and appointed you two with the expectation you would see no further than the obvious.’ Withypoll turned to Forman. ‘What do you think?’

Forman stared. ‘I don’t know.’

‘He appointed us because his other agents have all fled London,’ I explained. ‘This is not the first investigation we have undertaken, and so he would have little reason to suppose we would not apply ourselves. What I don’t understand is why you would seek to prevent us. Perhaps you killed Wharton?’

‘Perhaps,’ Withypoll shrugged. ‘It is of little concern to you now, anyway. Finish your ale.’

I looked to my pot, almost full still. ‘I am not ready to leave.’

‘Aye, well ye had best prepare yourself.’ Forman lowered his arm beneath the table and pushed his knife into my thigh. ‘We must put you to death, Lytle, because now you know something you shouldn’t. It is not your fault, I own, but what has occurred, has occurred. We will walk you to the river since it will save us dragging you there.’

They watched me intently, gauging my reaction. I thought of shouting to the crowd outside but knew my plea would garner no response. The taverner would have warned all to leave us alone. This was ridiculous.

‘What is it I know?’

‘You know who Tanner is.’ Forman pushed the blade deeper.

My skin stretched beneath the knife. ‘Move him. Find him another place to live.’

Forman shook his head sadly. ‘No, Harry. You saw his face.’

I could think of nothing to respond. ‘Well, I am not walking to the river.’

‘I prefer to see a man die with dignity, Harry.’

‘I care not what you prefer.’ Terror and anger came together and threatened to make my eyes water. I determined they would not see it, sensed they watched for it, had seen it before. What would happen if I were to wrap myself about the table so they could not move me? Surely they would not kill me here in the tavern?

Withypoll inspected his fingertips. ‘If you don’t
walk
out of here, Forman will strike you hard, and we will carry out your prone body like we are friends. To the river.’

My bladder loosened.

Forman settled back. ‘Finish your ale quickly, Harry.’

I didn’t wish to drink the ale at all. My mind clouded with unholy fear and I could not recall my own name, let alone devise an ingenious plan to escape these villains. I thought to debate it further, but couldn’t find the words to start a sentence.

A door slammed. Hope lost. Footsteps. The door flung open.

‘Have I not warned ye of the perils of drink?’

I turned with lungs paralysed, unable to breathe. There before me the ugly face of Newgate’s noblest butcher. Behind him the taverner and two others.

Dowling stepped forward and cuffed Withypoll about the head, knocking his hat askew. ‘Aye, Harry, now let’s be going. We have work to do.’

Was he as lunatic as Franklin? It was madness to antagonise Withypoll – they would take their revenge. Yet he committed to it now. Despite my fear, it was all I could do not to laugh at the sight of Withypoll, hat fallen askew over one eye.

‘You are Dowling?’ he asked, voice almost a whisper.

‘David Dowling. Butcher.’

Withypoll nodded, straightening his hat. ‘I too am a butcher.’

‘I know it.’ Dowling pulled the knife from the table. ‘Perhaps we might form a guild?’

Withypoll smashed his fist down upon the table. ‘We are different categories of butcher, David Dowling.’

‘So I believe.’ Dowling turned his attention to Forman. ‘You might give me your knife too, else have your fingers broke.’

Forman shook his head. ‘You think we will not kill you, butcher?’

Dowling kept his left hand low, knife gripped hard. ‘Not today, you won’t.’

Forman sat still, contemplating the situation, afore standing slowly and smoothing the creases from his beautiful silk jacket. ‘I will keep my knife, Mr Dowling.’ He bowed his head afore eyeing the small crowd that watched, enthralled. ‘It has been a most enjoyable morning, gentlemen.’

Withypoll shuffled his feet, eyeing Forman with stubborn disagreement, contemplating Dowling like he would fight him on the spot.

‘Come, Withypoll, we shall renew acquaintance soon enough,’ Forman snapped, before walking out the door with purpose and a fury.

Withypoll followed, reluctant.

I felt reborn. A great calm descended upon my soul and I thought to kiss him. ‘You saved my life, Dowling.’

‘Aye, me and Robert.’

‘Robert?’

Dowling turned to the taverner. ‘Aye. He buys my meat.’

Still the drip hung from the taverner’s nose.

‘Thanks to ye, Rob.’ Dowling clapped him about the shoulder and looked at me, waiting.

‘Aye, thanks, Rob,’ I said sincerely.

Robert grunted, wiped his nose with the palm of his right hand and held it out for me to shake. Under the circumstances I could hardly refuse.

We headed east, my heart still brimming over with love and gratitude for the filthy butcher. It was past eight o’clock and people were out on the streets. Plague or no plague, they had to eat.

‘How did ye know to return?’

Dowling shook his head. ‘I was as slow-headed as you. I hadn’t reached halfway up the hill afore I realised they might have waited for us. I ran back and saw them trailing you, watched them take you.’

A great wave of emotion engulfed my chest, threatening to erupt out my eyes and mouth. ‘They wanted to take me to the river, cut me up.’

Dowling stepped to one side, avoiding an unsteady looking fellow with moist brow. ‘They may be trailing us still.’

Relief washed through my body and my hands trembled. I
hadn’t realised how frightened I became. All in the service of finding out who killed a man whom no one loved, not even his wife. ‘What is the sense in all this, Davy?’ I asked, hearing my voice shake.

‘No sense that I can see,’ Dowling puffed, striding ahead. ‘Why do ye not take Jane to Cocksmouth as you planned? I will tell Newcourt of those two brutes, tell him to send soldiers after them.’

‘Go to Cocksmouth and watch my uncle slaughter pigs? Methinks not.’

‘Ye’d rather stay here and be slaughtered yourself?’ Dowling stopped on the corner of Bread Street. ‘As you said, where is the sense in that?’

Where indeed. Yet where was the sense in fleeing? I’d spent the last several years bemoaning the tedium of my life. Now someone waved a knife in my face I was tempted to run. It was time to prove my worth. I drew myself up to my full height and punched the butcher lightly in the kidneys. ‘Thank you, Davy.’

‘Thanks for what?’ he frowned.

‘For helping clarify my thoughts.’ I breathed easier. ‘And we have two avenues to explore. First, what’s happening at Bedlam. Second, find those four dogs Burke told us of, at Winchester Palace. They must know something.’

Dowling raised his brows. ‘Which first?’

‘Pateson,’ I decided. ‘For that should be quickest. I want to know why the keeper of Bedlam never visits, and what he knows of Edmund Franklin.’

‘Then we’d best find out where he lives,’ said Dowling. ‘Back to the Guildhall.’

Pateson lived at Bell Alley, just inside the city wall. There was no door to knock upon unless you cared to kneel down, for it was a split door and the top half was open.

Inside smelt like the burrow of a small furry animal. They sat within, a man and a woman, one either end of a small table, eating from bowls in which floated lumps of gristle on a greasy soup. They put the gristle in their mouths, chewed it, then spat it back into the foul oily liquid.

‘Mr Pateson,’ I called.

Flat, yellow teeth protruded from his mouth and short, white whiskers covered his face. His body was short and round, back crooked. His wife was of similar build and appearance, though her face was less whiskery and a few brown strands still streaked her hair.

‘Who are you?’ she squeaked.

‘King’s agents, come to ask a few questions.’

Pateson huddled over his broth. ‘If it is so,’ he mumbled.

There was no other chair in the room and they did not invite us to enter. Dowling leant over the top of the door. ‘You are the keepers of Bedlam, are you not?’

‘Aye, keepers of Bedlam. A fine job,’ the woman spat, glaring at her husband. ‘Living among lunatics. No better than animals, most of them, and this one suggesting we live there with them.’

‘You would rather live here in this damp hole.’ Her husband glared back at her. ‘There we had brick walls, room to stretch a leg and a front door besides.’

‘If a man says a pile of bricks is a wall, then he might as well live in the open air and call the rain to land upon his face.’ She waved a hand dismissively, though I had no idea what she meant. ‘And there are more criminals there so as to make a front door a barrier, not an entrance.’

He buried his face in his bowl and peered out like he would happily strangle her. Seemed this was a conversation they enacted regularly. I opened my mouth, but Pateson spoke first. ‘It is a job, you flaky hag, and pays well.’

She leant back and wrinkled her nose. ‘Then get you back there.’

He gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles. ‘Aye, get me back there to work like a dog twice-over, while you sit here and do nothing and expect your share of the money, I’ll be bound.’

‘You do as you will. I can earn my own way. You just want someone to cook and clean for you and your lunatics, and know you’ll not find another as cheap as me.’

‘Aye, that be right,’ he sneered. ‘There be none as cheap as you.’

Now it was her turn to change colour. I was pleased to be at safe distance.

‘How often do you visit the place?’ I asked, taking advantage of the lull in proceedings.

There was no reply, just the sound of deep breathing as they sat staring at each other in furious contemplation.

‘You have not been there for a while,’ I said.

Pateson’s gaze returned to the greasy broth. ‘You visited then?’

I sensed his fear. ‘We have no interest in your stipend, Mr Pateson. That is no affair of ours.’

‘What do you want then?’ asked his wife.

‘The Earl of St Albans was murdered on Lord’s Day. His brother sits inside your asylum and we would know what you can tell us of them.’

Pateson stared blankly. ‘The Earl of St Albans?’

‘Did he visit Franklin?’

‘Franklin? None visit Franklin. He is a dangerous lunatic. He will bite pieces out of you. It is why we keep him on his own.’

My stomach sunk towards my groin as I recalled our own visit. The fear upon Daniel’s face. The way he sat with his back to us while we talked with Franklin. ‘Morrison allowed us to approach the bars.’

Pateson scrunched up his furry face in perplexed bewilderment. ‘Morrison did?’

Dowling cleared his throat. ‘We were told the Earl’s brother is an inmate and Morrison directed us at Franklin.’

Pateson stared down at the bottom half of the door. ‘Really?’ His brows knit together so low and close you could not see his eyes. ‘I don’t see how Morrison could know.’ He looked me in the eye, curious. ‘Franklin is the wildest lunatic in the asylum. We have had him locked up twenty years.’ He shook his head and smiled cautiously. ‘None know where Franklin comes from since he is incapable of telling us, but he is not related to nobility.’

‘When were you last there?’ I asked.

‘A month ago. Morrison and Gallagher are able,’ he replied, defensive.

‘Gallagher?’

‘Hugh Gallagher,’ his wife answered. ‘Cruel to the lunatics and doesn’t mind provoking them to anger.’

‘Gallagher was not there when we visited,’ I said. ‘Morrison said he was sickly. Said he carried the only key to the vestry.’

Pateson frowned. ‘Who was there beside Morrison?’

‘A young man with ginger hair,’ I told him. ‘The two of
them stood on the doorstep drinking wine. The place stank like a cesspool.’

‘It always stinks like a cesspool,’ said the wife. ‘It is another reason I will not abide there. Dirty and unclean. You would have to be mad to go close to it with plague about.’ This place seemed dirtier to me.

I watched Pateson hide his face in his hands.

‘Someone has to tend them,’ I said. ‘You cannot leave two men alone to tend sixty lunatics, especially if they neglect their duties. Why do you not visit? You don’t have to live there to ensure the place is cared for.’

‘He cannot,’ his wife sneered. ‘He is paid coin to keep away.’

‘Who pays coin?’ Dowling growled.

‘Morrison,’ she replied.

Pateson raised his head, face scarlet, fists clenched, eyes fixed upon his wife.

‘Generous of him,’ I observed.

‘I don’t know why he did it,’ Pateson mumbled. ‘They didn’t tell me, just paid me coin to stay away. Then after we shook hands Morrison threatened me with death should I set foot in the place again.’

‘Morrison?’ The same short avuncular Morrison we met?

‘He may be little to look at, but he is a demon.’

‘How long has he worked with you?’

‘Three months. Gallagher recommended him. He was sober and confident and well able to deal with the lunatics, at least when I was there. He worked with us a while, then made me the offer.’

‘Did he not say then why he made it?’

He shook his head.

‘It was a lot of coin,’ his wife remarked.

‘Aye,’ he conceded, ‘it was a lot of coin. And he made a generous first payment.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I returned to see what state the place was in, for I did not desire to lose my tenure in case the inspectors arrived. He calmly assured me he would keep the place in order, but refused me the right to walk around. When I insisted, he took me into my own office and held me down with his arm across my throat. He said it was his facility to run so long as he desired, and he would keep paying me. But if I returned or revealed our arrangement, then he would kill me.’ Pateson mopped his brow. ‘As if I would reveal it! But later he and Gallagher came here.’

‘Aye,’ his wife snorted. ‘And what did they do?’ He stared at the table, but did not reply. Hate emanated from her eyes. ‘Tell them.’

‘They made her remove her clothes and threatened her with a knife.’

‘They removed my clothes for me and held a knife to my breast and said they would cut it off if ever again he returned,’ she jeered.

‘I could do nothing,’ he said to the table.

‘He has always been afraid of Gallagher.’

‘I am no more afraid of Gallagher than I am of the lunatics,’ Pateson retorted. ‘I suspected he might be becoming lunatic himself, the way he behaved. A consequence of working in the place too many years. So I treated him with caution.’

‘You are a great coward,’ she sneered.

‘And you are a bucket head that divorces thyself of all responsibility.’

It made no sense. ‘So you say Franklin has no relatives, yet Morrison says otherwise.’

‘I have been there longer than Morrison.’

‘What else can you tell us of Franklin?’ I asked.

‘If you saw him for yourselves I can tell you little else I have not told you already.’ Pateson curled his lip. ‘They say he was driven to madness by the pox, since when he has been lunatic.’

Which did make sense. The deformity of the child we saw at St Albans might well have been caused by pox. But what of Franklin himself? ‘If Franklin was poxed I would have expected to see more signs of it.’

‘What signs would you seek?’ Pateson watched me, wary. ‘Did he not look poxed to you?’

Truth was I recalled no sign of the pox whatever. I looked to Dowling, who appeared as mystified as I.

‘His face is pitted and scarred,’ Pateson said, observing our mystification.

I shook my head. ‘I don’t recall it.’

Pateson’s wife tapped a finger on the table. ‘Gallagher was a mean-spirited cur who would slice his mother’s throat for a pipe of tobacco.’

‘Aye,’ Pateson nodded fervently, relieved to be able to agree with her, but I no longer listened.

We should go back to Bedlam, I realised, and put this little mystery to bed. Not today, though. The sun shone too hot to risk a visit north of the wall. Today to the Bishop of Winchester’s palace at Southwark. I tapped Dowling upon the shoulder and we left Pateson and his wife to finish their intimate dinner in private.