A Plague of Sinners (19 page)

The fright of seeing plague upon Mary Gallagher’s arms still accompanied me, creeping beneath my skin. Still I felt the weight of the tiny grey baby pressing gently into my arms. My heart weighed so heavy it was all I could do to place one foot in front of the other.

The rector of St Helen’s was a sombre fellow, yet a good man I supposed. For he had accepted responsibility for the two corpses we fetched without complaint, and waved away my offer of money. His eyes were sad, yet his manner betrayed none of the self-piteous fury I saw in other clergymen.

Dowling walked silent beside me. The fear that seized my soul in the presence of Mary Gallagher, and the despair I felt for her and her family, provoked within me fresh anxiety for Jane. I had to see how she fared. So distracted were we both, that neither of us noticed the red coach following us until we passed St Peter’s.

It stalked us at the exact same pace we walked, one man flanking either side of it, brutish-looking fellows with swords at their belts.

It stopped when we stopped. The man closest to us drew his long sword with a flourish, then opened the door to the coach and stepped aside. Eyes nestled like small currants. His lips lay tight and drawn against his burnt skin, yet his brow was dry, his gait loose and relaxed. This was not a fellow about to stab someone.

Dowling tugged at my sleeve. ‘Come. I know whose coach this is.’

Though it was quite a large coach there was little room left inside, barely space for Dowling and me to squeeze in next to each other. Opposite sat a large man with vast stomach and short, rounded legs, watching us wriggle and squirm as we attempted to position ourselves. He smiled with his mouth, though not with his eyes, hands folded neatly upon his lap. Up close I saw thin, purple veins bulging prominent about his cheeks and nose. Various lumps clung like little boils to his chin, brow and the back of his hands. He was dressed in the conservative attire of a well-fed cleric.

‘I am William Perkins,’ he announced with a lisp. ‘Aide to the Bishop of London.’ He nodded slightly, as if he expected us to bow.

Dowling did his best, leaning so far forward that Perkins had to push himself backwards against the wall of the coach to avoid receiving a mouthful of heavily stained bristle. I didn’t bother.

The coach set off again, heading east. Perkins pursed fleshy lips and arched his heavy eyebrows. He turned his eyes towards me. ‘I am informed by those I trust that you hath accused me of murder?’

It was like being stung by a hornet. ‘I have not!’

Perkins waggled a finger in front of my nose. ‘That is a lie. You told George Boddington you suspected me of the murder of Thomas Wharton.’

‘I did not.’ I held up my palms, warding him off. ‘I asked him if he was sure you did
not
murder Thomas Wharton, which is not the same thing at all.’

‘I think it is the same thing.’ He dug his nails into his hands. ‘And you told him the clergy are all devils, sent by Satan to conquer the earth.’

‘I said no such thing,’ I protested. ‘I know several members of the clergy who I believe to be good men. I met one today.’

Dowling jabbed his elbow violently into my gut. ‘It was not Harry who accused you, sir. It was one of Thomas Wharton’s brood.’

Perkins clasped his hands in a steeple afront of his chest. ‘I know of you, David Dowling, and I know you are a good man.’ He nodded his big head in my direction. ‘This man though is a vile sinner that hath offended God. It was clear to Boddington as it is clear to me, that he hath the spirit of an unclean devil and is tempted by it.’

The old anger welled up within. Why did I feel compelled to defend myself afront this nincompoop? ‘This is all absurd nonsense,’ I exclaimed unwisely. ‘You are a man with two legs and two arms that farts as loud as any other. It is a man with two legs and two arms that killed Wharton, and we must look in every corner if we are to discover where he hides.’

‘Ye shall make you no idols nor graven image,’ said Perkins, struggling to control his breathing. ‘You commit thy horrid deeds in the service of Lord Arlington, do ye not? He who preaches liberty of conscience.’

I opened my mouth to speak afore Dowling elbowed me again, shunting me hard against the edge of the seat with his hip. ‘We do work for Lord Arlington, sir, indeed.’ He spoke quietly. ‘Though we know nothing of liberty of conscience and assume his lordship is as faithful to God as he is loyal to his king.’

Truth was, many suspected both the King and Lord Arlington nurtured latent tendencies towards Catholicism. Which was all of little interest to me. Perkins sat silent, eyeing me like he would pile rocks upon my chest, while Dowling sat frozen, barely breathing. It would have been a good strategy to remain quiet.

I looked out of the window and thought to climb out before I suffocated. ‘The point is that Lord Arlington works direct for the King,’ I said.

‘As did Wharton,’ Perkins smiled again, bright-eyed. ‘Wharton was a King’s agent and performed evil deeds in the King’s name, he and his accomplices.’

‘You accuse the King? Is that not treason?’ Not that I minded particularly. I spoke more out of astonishment.

‘I did not say the King knew of it.’ Perkins shook his finger. ‘Upon that I will not comment. I say they performed evil on his behalf. Now they lie dead, four of the five, so I hear, four dead in four days and you discovered all the bodies. Tell me you did not kill them on Arlington’s behalf. Tell me you do not plan to usurp them, Harry Lytle.’

‘I have never killed anyone in my life,’ I protested, which was not quite true. ‘Nor did we discover all the bodies. The only body we discovered was the one at Bedlam.’

Dowling wrung his hands and tried to catch Perkins’ eye. ‘That is true, sir,’ he whispered.

A vein popped up on Perkins’ nose and he stabbed the air
with his finger. ‘If ye act not in league with the agents of God, then ye act in league with the agents of Satan.’ He bared his teeth and pointed at me. ‘And you are a deceiver! Wharton and his beasts tortured men, good men some of them. I have spent many hours with the families of those that were taken and ne’er returned. John Ricketts, Matthew Horne, Roger Cline, all good men whose sons are lost.’

I snorted. ‘And you think I am a torturer besides?’ It was a ridiculous notion, an idiot notion indeed.

He sat back to gloat, an ugly delectation smeared across his bulbous countenance. ‘Thy association with the dark spirits hath resulted in the shrouding of your weak soul in their black shadow.’

‘My weak soul remains unshrouded,’ I assured him, ‘and your dramatic pontifications serve only to vex.’

He glared, the hate abiding in his soul revealing itself in all ugliness. ‘Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand, but it shall not come nigh thee. Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the
wicked
.’

I shoved back hard against Dowling, creating space for myself, meeting Perkins’ poisonous stare. His eyes protruded from their sockets, so hateful were they. How did he dare, this loathsome beast, how did he dare associate me with the pestilence? I thought again of Mary Gallagher and her children, of Jane lain dying, and clenched my fists. I felt Dowling’s hand upon my thigh.

‘You are a
little
man,’ Perkins hissed, mistaking my stillness for helplessness.

‘And you are a fat man,’ I replied.

His eyes widened in surprise. ‘How dare you?’

‘Indeed you are fatter than a great pig.’

His jaw clenched and his face turned puce.

‘You are fatter than a great cow. A great cow that is due to give birth to a calf.’

I felt a tug at my elbow. Dowling’s face was white. ‘You cannot talk to him like that.’

‘You are a liar.’ Perkins rolled the words about his fleshy lips like greasy knobs of fat. ‘The wicked are estranged from the womb: they go astray as soon as they be born, speaking lies.’

Enough. I smashed my fist into his nose. At which point was unleashed the apocalypse. The cleric grabbed his face and howled while I felt myself thrown through the coach door and out onto the street where I landed on my face and wrist. I rolled about into a sitting position, clasping my hand to my chest. Dowling reached down to grab me by the scruff of the neck and jerked me onto my feet. The men with swords dashed to the coach to see what happened, and Dowling hauled me towards Gracechurch Street.

‘You cannot strike a clergyman,’ Dowling roared as we ran.

The two swordsmen stood aghast, peering into the coach while Perkins still screamed. We turned the corner and were gone.

‘Did you not hear what he said?’ I shouted back.

Dowling led me through a labyrinth of tiny alleyways and out onto Dowgate. ‘He is clergy, Harry. He can say whatever he pleases. Now he has every excuse to seek your neck.’ He slapped his palm against my forehead. ‘Your hand at least!’

I held up my swelling wrist. ‘He can have this one.’

For a moment I thought he was going to cuff me again. Instead he muttered beneath his breath words I could barely make out.

I watched him march down the street with his hands dug deep into his pockets and thanked the Lord he was on my side. Whatever the consequences for me, the consequences for him bode just as dire. For he was a devout man, a devout man that had just helped me escape.

‘Dowling.’ I stopped him. He turned to face me, old eyes worn and tired. ‘We must go east.’

He scowled, perplexed.

‘I know where Roger Cline lives.’

Of the three names Perkins mentioned, two I forgot already, but Roger Cline worked at the Navy Offices. He lived in the parish of St Olave’s, not far from Oliver Willis. I knew nothing of his family.

I knocked upon his door while Dowling waited outside. It had been a long day already, and Dowling stank like an old man. He tore his stained shirt upon launching me out of Perkins’ coach, and now resembled Death triumphant, a grim executioner. I wouldn’t get past Cline’s front door with him in tow.

My own clothes were creased and crumpled, but without my jacket I appeared almost presentable. Sufficient to pass muster at the door anyhow, for the servant admitted me with but a cursory glance at the King’s seal.

I was shown into a small, square room hung with printed calicoes coloured a deep blue, almost black. Thick curtains covered the window, bestowing a funereal mood upon the room’s bare contents. My attention was drawn to a large
mirror hanging upon the opposite wall, its ornate golden frame chipped and cracked, the glass broken or removed. Strange to leave it hanging.

‘Sit down,’ a voice commanded.

I stepped back, startled, for I hadn’t realised I had company. Sunk deep into a large armchair sat an old man, smaller than me. There was but one other chair in which to sit, from where I could barely make out the features of his face in the gloom.

‘You carry the credentials of a King’s man. Who are you?’ His voice tremored, yet bore traces of hatred and resentment.

‘I am Harry Lytle, a King’s man, investigating the death of Thomas Wharton.’

He snorted loudly like he sought to clear his head of mucus.

‘William Perkins told me that you knew him.’

‘Aye, I knew him. But I have no desire to talk with you, King’s man.’

‘Why not?’

‘For it is the day of the
Lord
’s vengeance, Mr Lytle, not the day of
man
’s vengeance,’ the old man laboured. ‘God will exercise judgement upon the man who killed Wharton, for in truth that man has rid us all of a foul and evil beast, so I cannot be certain it was not God’s will.’

‘King Charles is God’s agent on earth, and it is his will we discover what happened.’ I felt a pain in my side. ‘If God wishes it otherwise, then we shall fail, no matter what you disclose.’

As I grew accustomed to the dark, so I became aware of his beady eyes staring intently above the tips of his fingers. ‘What sort of King’s man are you?’ he asked.

‘You said Wharton was evil.’

‘Aye, so he was, as evil as any man ye could hope not to meet.’

‘Tell me about his evil.’

‘Tell you what?’ I saw his hands clench and heard the tension in his voice. ‘You say you are a King’s man and still I don’t know what that means.’

‘I am not seeking to entrap you, Cline.’ I edged closer. ‘I need to know more about Wharton. There is no more to it.’

He rubbed his forefingers against the tip of his nose. ‘My son disappeared a year ago, King’s man. I suspect Wharton took him. It is no secret, for I told my story to William Perkins.’

‘Why would Wharton take your son?’

His eyes seemed to sparkle and I suspected he shed tears. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied.

I waited for him to say more, but he clasped his fingers to his mouth like they feared his words.

‘You suspect some conspiracy?’

He grunted and rolled his eyes, like I was simple and foolish.

‘Cline, if you ask me not to relate your story for fear it will betray you, then I will not relate it.’ I spoke quick and quiet. ‘I was not Wharton’s colleague.’

Cline wrinkled his nose. ‘Wharton was a fiend, surrounded by fiends, and he worked for the King. He was appointed Earl of St Albans soon after the King was restored.’

‘That I know.’

He nodded. ‘My son was not the only one to disappear.’

‘What did your son do?’ I asked.

Cline shook his white head. ‘He worked for the Protectorate for a while. He administered Jamaican land rights and organised passage. He was a clerk, nothing more. But I was here when Wharton’s men took him from this house, and I was there when they fetched him back to Southwark.’ His lip
quivered. ‘They took him to Winchester Palace, and when I went there to protest, one of them told me if I did not desist then he would stick his blade through my poor wife’s neck!’