A Plague of Sinners (16 page)

‘Enough,’ he hissed, eyes wide, face bright scarlet. ‘Begone now, Lytle, and do not come back to my house. If you come within a hundred yards of my daughter again then I shall personally run my sword through your sticky heart!’

‘Very well.’ I feared his own sticky heart might be about to explode. ‘I will leave you, Oliver, but I hope you know what you are doing.’

He exhaled and stared at the floor. I walked out the door into the hall, where Liz waited.

‘What is going on?’ She stepped forwards to peer into the dining room. ‘What did you say to him?’

My little soul tremored afront of her rage. ‘You must ask him, Liz.’ I ducked my head and headed for the door.

Things were getting out of hand. It was time to call upon Newcourt for help.

It was a strange experience travelling this road I once walked every day. I had not passed through the Lion’s Gate for more than a year. The familiar surrounds stirred residual feelings of dread, the prospect of another tedious day sorting old records. Whilst I had not actually been a prisoner here, still I thought of the Tower as my jail. I had been a clerk, working for the formidable William Prynne, he of cropped ears and the letters ‘S. L.’ branded into his face. He still lurked here, I assumed, somewhere within the walls of the Wakefield Tower.

Familiar yet different. In my time the guards and the soldiers were aimless and slovenly, often drunk and never diligent. Today though they presented smart and correct, every item of their dress pristine. Sentries checked our credentials with extraordinary diligence at the Bulwark Gate, the Lion’s Gate and the Byward Tower. Sir John Robinson, now commander
of the Tower guard, was reckoned to be a fastidious tyrant with little tolerance for indiscipline or disorder.

‘Where is Newcourt?’ Dowling asked a guard beneath the Bloody Tower. ‘We hear he is come to meet Sir John.’

The guard jerked a thumb in the direction of the White Tower without saying a word nor moving a muscle of his face. I thought I recognised him, though it was difficult to be certain. They all appeared so elegant and clean.

I spotted Newcourt straightaway, lean and lithe, stood bowed with feet together in obsequious pose afront of an older-looking gentleman with stern eyes and imposing bulk. Sir John Robinson spoke with great intensity, chopping at the air with his arms and pointing at Newcourt’s chest, while the younger man nodded so hard I feared his head might fall off. Robinson finished his performance with a final flurry of barked instruction before marching off in the direction of the Lieutenant’s Lodgings.

‘Mr Newcourt!’ I called.

‘What do you want?’ he scowled, glaring miserably at the floor.

‘Lord Arlington said we should come to you if we need help or resource,’ I reminded him. ‘We are in need of both.’

Newcourt rubbed his hand across the surface of his pristine wig. ‘I have to go to Hampton Court,’ he muttered, hurrying back towards the Byward Tower.

Dowling clamped a giant paw upon his shoulder and pulled him back. ‘Will you listen to our request?’

Newcourt made a discreet attempt to free himself afore turning back. A faint tremble of his lips belied his anger and frustration. ‘Tell me quick,’ he snapped. ‘I am busy.’

‘We need money, but more important we need protection,’ I told him. ‘Men are trying to kill us.’

He dug into his jacket. ‘How much money do you need?’

‘I have spent nearly two pounds already,’ I said. ‘In less than a week.’

He pulled out some coins. ‘Here is a pound, thereabouts. The rest I will reimburse you next time we meet. What else?’

‘Two men have tried to kill me, two others tortured him.’ I pointed to Dowling’s bandaged thumb.

Newcourt shrugged, impatient.

‘Can you not borrow some soldiers from Sir John?’ I asked. ‘We can tell you who to arrest.’

‘Listen.’ He drew himself up straight. ‘Sir John demands yet more funds to extend the pesthouse at Stepney. He wants to buy more land about the Cripplegate Pesthouse, and he wants to extend the garrison so as to be able to properly monitor the activities of the dissenters.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘I am not about to ask him for soldiers to protect you from a few ruffians.’

‘I am not talking about ruffians,’ I protested. ‘I am talking of two men who seem to be working for Lord Chelwood, and two of Wharton’s old entourage whose profession includes torment and abuse.’

‘Lord Chelwood?’ Newcourt blinked. ‘What has he to do with Wharton’s death?’

‘He has some connection with Burke is all we know,’ I said. ‘And his men tried to kill me after I followed Burke to the house of John Tanner.’

‘Who is John Tanner?’

‘We don’t know.’

Newcourt stared over my shoulder, deep in thought. ‘Wharton’s entourage. You speak of the four men who call themselves after the Four Horsemen?’

‘Yes.’

‘You found two dead, I understand,’ he said.

‘Two dead, aye, and two remain alive. They seem to think Lord Arlington is responsible for the death of Wharton, he or some cleric …’ I struggled to recall the name.

‘William Perkins,’ Dowling helped me.

‘You have discovered more than I thought you capable.’ Newcourt glanced at me briefly. ‘I will see you again when I return. Meantime you must manage alone.’ He placed a hand on my shoulder, surprisingly tender. ‘For there are ungodly men, turning the grace of our God into lasciviousness, denying the only Lord God, and our Lord Jesus Christ.’

‘Amen,’ Dowling echoed.

I was trapped between zealots. I preferred Newcourt the mean-minded incompetent.

‘A fine fellow,’ Dowling pronounced, watching Newcourt disappear.

Fine fellow or not, he reminded me we had yet to pursue the ranting cleric. I looked up at Dowling and wondered why he hadn’t thought of it either. ‘He told us nothing, promised us nothing and gave me but a pound.’

‘If Forman and Withypoll work for Lord Chelwood, then Lord Arlington cannot arrest them,’ Dowling said. ‘Not without more evidence.’

‘Who is this William Perkins?’

Dowling avoided my gaze. ‘He works for the Bishop of London, Humphrey Henchman. He is devoted to driving dissenters out of the city.’

‘Why do Wharton’s dogs think Perkins may have killed Thomas Wharton?’

‘They asked what we had discovered of him, they did not say they thought he killed him.’

‘You remember the conversation well,’ I noted. ‘Yet you seem to hold little enthusiasm for seeking Perkins out.’

‘Harry, did you not hear me?’ Dowling stopped beneath the arch of the Middle Tower. ‘Perkins is a close associate of the Bishop of London. The Bishop is close to the King, worked hard for his return. He is loyal to the Crown. The Bishop of London would not murder nobility, nor sanction it.’

‘Yet Perkins had some relation to the Earl of St Albans,’ I pointed out, unmoved. ‘Else why would War ask us what we discovered?’

‘So what would you do, Harry? Arrest the Bishop?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Just ask questions and become a great nuisance. Same as always.’

‘And always you end up with your head broken or locked up in a jail somewhere.’ Dowling raised his voice, unlike him. ‘Which surely will be the case if you embark upon a hare-brained, ill-considered holy siege!’

‘Then you must come with me,’ I reasoned. ‘And save me from myself, as is your wont.’

‘So be it,’ Dowling growled. ‘We will go and talk to a friend of mine. Better than going straight to the Bishop and ending up charged with heresy.’

‘And if my aunt was a man she’d be my uncle,’ I retorted. ‘Let’s visit this friend of yours now, then. Where does he live?’

‘George Boddington is the rector at St James Garlickhythe.’ Dowling led us through Petty Wales. ‘A serious man who I will thank ye not to offend.’

‘I can promise not to offend,’ I said. ‘Though I cannot promise you he will not be offended.’

Dowling glared as though he would happily break my neck, and so I walked in silence.

St James Garlickhythe was a vintners’ church, just across the street from the Vintners’ Hall on Thames Street. Inside was dark and silent. Dowling led us down the aisle, footsteps echoing loud.

‘Your friend Boddington is still here, or has he fled like all the others?’ I whispered.

Dowling stopped in front of a large gravestone, laid into the floor. Engraved upon it was the figure of a man, broad shouldered and tall, curly-haired, with a little forked beard.

A short figure strode to meet us. ‘I am still here, and I am staying here,’ a deep voice boomed. He pointed at the figure on upon the ground. ‘That is Richard Lyons, once Sheriff of London and master to Wat Tyler. Tyler was an evil man who came back to chop off his head and parade it about London on the end of a spear.’

‘Lyons was a tyrant then?’

‘Lyons was a great man,’ Boddington replied, authoritatively. ‘Tyler was insane, an agent of the Devil.’

Since Boddington invited no debate, and Dowling’s beady eyes stuck to me like glue, I passed no further comment.

‘Woe to the idol shepherd that leaveth the flock,’ Boddington announced, looking at me. ‘The sword shall be upon his arm, and upon his right eye. His arm shall be clean dried up, and his right eye shall be utterly darkened!’ He didn’t seem to like me much.

Dowling sighed. He stuck out his hand in greeting,
whereupon Boddington seized it and pumped it up and down as if he expected water to gush forth from the butcher’s mouth.

‘You are well, George?’

‘God watches over me.’ Boddington waved a hand. ‘Come to the vestry and we will talk.’ He turned on his heel without waiting for response and led us towards the back of the church into a gloomy little room.

Boddington lowered himself into a large, wooden throne, like God Himself, while we sat upon smaller chairs afore him. Upon the arms of the chair, and about the back of it, were carved little scallop shells, like those the pilgrims fetched home from the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela, where St James lay buried.

‘This is Harry Lytle.’ Dowling held out his palm as if I were a foreign object to stare at and scrutinise. ‘He works at the Guildhall under the eye of Sir Thomas Player.’

‘A worthy occupation.’ Boddington crossed his legs. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘We seek your advice, George,’ said Dowling.

‘Advice?’ Boddington sounded wary. ‘Many men seek advice these days. I give them all the same answer; thou shalt worship no other god but the Lord, whose name is Jealous, who is a jealous God.’

‘Aye, so,’ Dowling nodded. ‘The advice we seek is more specific.’

Boddington twitched his nose.

‘We are investigating the death of Thomas Wharton.’ Dowling spoke low. ‘We found him on Monday.’

Boddington’s eyes widened. ‘How so it was you that found him?’

Dowling shuffled slightly. ‘We work for Lord Arlington. He instructed us to investigate.’

‘Great is the mystery of godliness.’ Boddington clasped his hands together. ‘Men have talked of little else since that night. I heard rumour of what they found, a tale so wicked I can scarce believe it. Will you confirm it to me?’

‘We found him hanging by his neck,’ I replied. ‘Whoever killed him pressed coins in his eyes and pushed a wine bottle down his throat.’

Boddington leant forward. ‘He was naked?’

‘Naked,’ I confirmed.

‘And the beast carved out the seventy-fifth psalm upon his back.’ Boddington held his fingers to his lips. ‘For in the hand of the Lord there is a cup, and the wine is red. It is full of mixture; and he poureth out of the same. But the dregs thereof, all the wicked of the earth shall wring them out, and drink them.’

‘It would have taken the murderer half the night to carve that upon a man’s back,’ I pointed out.

Boddington scowled. ‘So it is not true?’

‘No, it’s not true,’ I said. ‘What is true is that William Perkins had some business with Thomas Wharton. We would find out what that business was.’

Boddington pushed himself back into his great chair. ‘William Perkins?’

‘Aye, William Perkins.’ Dowling reached out a hand to silence me. ‘Wharton had four colleagues, though we are not sure what they all did together. One inferred that Perkins was known to Wharton, had some kind of business with him.’

‘William Perkins is a devout fellow and labours long and hard in God’s ministry,’ Boddington replied, furious. ‘He a passionate fellow and would not shirk from confronting evil. What do you imply?’

‘We imply nothing, George,’ Dowling said, ‘nor doubt his purpose, but we don’t know what that purpose was. He may be a player in these events, albeit innocent and pure.’

Boddington’s arms relaxed. ‘As I told you, he is a passionate fellow. His purpose these days is same as all of us. To bolster the courage of those who think of fleeing. Every church deserted is occupied by a dissenter. By our temerity we betray our own faith.’

Dowling bowed his head solemnly. ‘Just so.’

‘Meantime the Quakers swarm about Westminster, knocking on doors and shutting themselves up with the sick to administer comfort.’

‘God will dispose of us as He wishes, according to his plans,’ Dowling agreed earnestly.

Which was all too much for me to stomach. What kind of God sought to torture his people so cruelly, that many now died of grief? What kind of God favoured the rich and wealthy above the poor and doughty?

‘What then was Perkins’ purpose
before
the plague?’ I demanded. ‘What of his involvement with Wharton then?’

‘I cannot tell you for certain.’ Boddington spoke slowly and hesitantly. ‘Though Wharton was an evil man, suspected of nefarious deeds.’

‘What nefarious deeds?’

‘You might talk to Perkins yourself,’ said Boddington. ‘For I heard only tales. If Wharton’s colleagues speak of Perkins, then it can only be that he persecuted them with just cause.’

‘What tales did you hear?’

‘As I said,’ Boddington snapped. ‘You might talk to Perkins yourself.’

‘Then you don’t believe Perkins might have killed Thomas
Wharton?’ I thought aloud. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord?’

Boddington’s head snapped about like an angry chicken. ‘Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.’ He stared at me as if I was a spirit to be cast out. ‘Whoever killed Thomas Wharton is a devil, and William Perkins is no devil. Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the Devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’

I did not appreciate being lectured at by righteous clerics. ‘Someone did it, and there are devils in the clergy as there are in all places.’

‘Get ye gone!’ Boddington proclaimed, face suffused with scarlet blood. ‘And take your devilry with thee!’