A Plague of Sinners (22 page)

It could have been me, I realised. I took off my shoes and walked as quiet as I could west towards Newgate.

I needed to rest somewhere Forman and Withypoll would never find me. I walked fast, unnerved by the emptiness and silence. Pitch and tar slowly sizzled in the burning braziers that lined the streets, and scented smoke drifted about the jetties of the houses. I thought I might be followed, yet each time I stopped to peer into the gloom all I saw were flickering shifting shapes, dancing in the light of the candles that lit the windows. I could think of only one place I would be safe that night.

There was a second house afflicted on my street now. Henry Hilton was a young fellow who took over his father’s business a year before. He had a wife and two young children, six and four years old, I guessed. He left home early and arrived late, wild black hair always set in some untamed shape. Soon as he saw you he would smile, eyes telling you how happy he felt. Now he had a red cross upon his door.

I didn’t recognise the man that watched my house and had never thought to ask Fuller who they appointed as nightwatch. I wondered where Hearsey slept, whether he still returned to his home outside the wall. This new fellow seemed less diligent, for he sat slumped, chin resting on his chest, legs splayed forward to stop him toppling over. I approached quietly and placed the key in the lock. Still he didn’t move, just snored, arms held tight about his chest. With but a quick glance up and down the street, I turned the handle and slipped inside.

A slight figure leapt to her feet, thin shawl clasped about her shoulders. She walked towards me, candle held high. ‘Who are you?’

‘Harry Lytle.’ I held up my hands. ‘I live here.’

‘You can’t come in!’ she whispered, shrill. ‘There is plague in the house.’

‘I know there is plague in the house,’ I assured her. ‘It’s my house.’

She bustled closer, shooing me back towards the door. ‘You must go. Lest they make you stay here.’ She held her pale face forward, peering at me like I was a ghost, black locks hanging beside her cheeks.

‘They told me you have fever.’ I stepped towards her, looking for signs.

She jumped back, trembling now with indignant agitation. ‘You would have a fever too if you stayed here hour after hour.’

It was hot as an oven. A fire burnt so bright in the kitchen it lit up the staircase.

‘You are not afflicted?’ I saw no swelling about her face. ‘Why do you hold that shawl to your shoulders?’

‘I have come from upstairs,’ she replied, ‘where it is much warmer. Your maidservant is still very sick.’

I looked to the stairs. ‘I must see her.’

The nurse pulled at my sleeve as I climbed the staircase. ‘You mustn’t go to her, else you too might become infected!’

‘The plague doesn’t enjoy my taste.’ I shrugged her gently aside. ‘It has had every opportunity.’

Jane lay upon her bed, still and grey, naked beneath a thin sheet, lips dry and brow dripping. The fire raged so bright I had to stand back for a moment, my face burning. I held an arm up to protect myself. ‘Surely this is too hot.’

‘Hearsey says you came before posturing as a medic,’ she scolded. ‘It was you that came last afternoon dressed in the costume. I would like to know where you acquired that costume and how many people may not have received physic because of it.’

‘There are few medics left about the City,’ I replied, scrutinising the buboes about Jane’s chest. They had all been lanced and poultices applied. ‘I doubt there is a shortage. Are there any new swellings since the medic attended her?’

‘No,’ the nurse snapped. ‘Which doesn’t mean there isn’t poison deeper within. The medic said to make sure she sweated, to be rid of the poison through her skin.’

‘Does she speak lucidly?’

The nurse pushed me backwards. ‘She hasn’t spoken at all since I have been here. She is sick and needs rest.’

At least Jane seemed peaceful. Though pale and thinner than e’er before, her face rested in calm repose. ‘Does the medic say she shall live?’

‘The medic says she will probably die, for there is so much poison within her. Yet I do all I can to make her comfortable and pray for her every hour.’

For a moment Jane seemed not to breathe, then gasped
sudden, a long, deep breath. I turned and left her alone, much to the relief of the nurse.

‘What is your name?’ I asked.

‘Ruth,’ she replied. ‘And rest assured I know what I am doing. Now leave this house afore I wake up the great dog upon the street. Should he smell you he will take you in his jaws and not let go. He is not an intelligent man.’

‘How is the aunt?’ I asked.

‘She is dead,’ Ruth replied. ‘As should come as no surprise to you.’ She spoke matter-of-fact, yet she bowed her head and her mouth twisted like she wanted to cry.

I pushed the door open. A sheet covered her from tip to toe. ‘I didn’t know her.’

‘Just as well.’

‘How long has she lain here?’

‘She died late this afternoon,’ Ruth answered. ‘The medic came after she died and confirmed it. The bearer will take her tonight.’

‘Take her where?’ I asked. The churchyards had been full afore the plague. Now there was little assistance for those without monies. The poor were buried in shrouds in the plague pits.

‘Back to her parish, I suppose.’ Ruth shook her head. ‘I understand she lived on the bridge.’

‘Aye, she lived on the bridge, but she had little money and no husband.’

Ruth shrugged.

I scratched my face and tried not to think of money. ‘Tell the bearer to take her to All Hallows. I will see her buried there.’

‘Very well,’ Ruth nodded. ‘Now you must leave.’

‘I will stay until morning, I have no choice.’ I looked to the night sky through the window. ‘What time does Hearsey arrive?’

‘Six of the morning,’ Ruth replied. ‘But you must leave now.’

‘I cannot leave now, Ruth.’ I walked slowly downstairs. ‘Else I will likely end up in the pit myself afore dawn.’ I thought of War, pictured his body being tipped upon the vast pile of corpses at the Cripplegate pit.

She noticed for the first time my limp, my torn clothes. ‘You are hurt?’

‘Cuts and blemishes.’ I waved a hand. ‘I can clean myself up. You should get some rest. I will sleep in my chair in the front room.’

‘Nonsense,’ she replied, then set about fussing worse than Jane until my scratches were washed and my body besides.

My clothes were torn beyond repair. I fetched new ones from my room, watching Jane’s aunt out the corner of my eye in case she moved. I settled myself to sleep a few hours in the front room downstairs, behind the open door, where none might see me from the street. I fell asleep afore my eyes finished closing.

I was awoken by a loud banging. I crept to the window and took a swift peek to see who sought entrance to a plagued house in the middle of the night, head full of ill-formed escape plans should it be Forman and Withypoll standing there. But it was a short man with thick arms and a cart. The bearer, of course.

I watched from the crack in the door as Ruth bid him enter. ‘Good evening and God bless you,’ I heard him say. He entered with a board beneath his arm. ‘If you’d be so kind as to show me where she lies. Are there any menfolk here?’

Ruth shook her head emphatically. ‘No.’

‘Aye, then.’ The bearer turned back to the street. ‘You, fellow. You will have to help me carry the body to the wagon.’

‘It’s not my job,’ a faint voice protested. ‘I am paid to wait outside and prevent others from going inside.’

‘Aye,’ the bearer grunted. ‘And prevent those from inside going outside. In this case the lady must come outside to be carried away and buried earthside, and I cannot carry her on my own.’

‘It’s not my job,’ the voice complained again.

The bearer cursed quiet, then cleared his throat. ‘Plague Orders state that said watchmen are to do such further offices as the sick house shall need and require, and in this instance the sick house requires that you take one end of this board and help me carry the dead lady.’ I saw him step angry towards the open door and jab a finger. ‘And if you choose not to fulfil that duty then I shall go away and leave the lady here and hold that conversation with Alderman Fuller in the morning.’

‘Very well,’ the watcher exclaimed, crestfallen. He poked his head through the doorway and looked left and right, like he expected to be leapt upon. The bearer watched him tread cautiously across the threshold, shaking his head. The stairs creaked as they made their way upstairs.

‘Where we taking her?’ the bearer called as they carried the corpse out.

‘To All Hallows church,’ Ruth replied.

‘All Hallows?’ the watcher demanded, curious. ‘Why so, All Hallows?’

‘The man that owns this house said All Hallows,’ Ruth replied. ‘Said he is paying her costs.’

‘When did you talk to the man that owns this house?’
The watcher stood still while the bearer struggled to hold the weight.

Ruth raised her chin. ‘Alderman Fuller told me yesterday, when I was appointed.’

The watcher’s eyes narrowed.

‘Kindly move your feet,’ the bearer urged him. ‘Afore I drop this lady upon the floor.’

The watcher did as he was bid, expression betraying his live suspicion. Ruth closed the door as soon as they stepped out onto the street and emitted a curse I had not heard from a woman before.

She glared at me as though she would slap my face. ‘What now do I tell Alderman Fuller?’

‘Should he ask, tell him I knocked upon the window while the watcher was asleep. Tell him you did not wish to get the watcher into trouble.’ I contemplated. ‘Indeed you might tell the watcher that yourself afore he leaves so he doesn’t raise the affair with Alderman Fuller at all.’

‘Yes.’ She relaxed. ‘A good lie.’ She scowled again. ‘How now will you get out? The watcher is wide awake.’

I looked to the sky. No sign of dawn. ‘At five o’clock you call to the watcher, tell him your tale, tell him you would not see him lose his job. Then tell him you need cold water immediately.’

The nurse stared. ‘You are a devious fellow.’

Which I took as commendation.

I returned to my chair and took what more sleep I could afore the sun crept up again.

Dowling had not been home since yesterday afternoon. The mask and cloak lay where I discarded them, the house was closed and musty. I made my way east towards the Guildhall, though it would not yet be open.

Wharton and his four accomplices were all now dead. Could it be that the killing now was over? Perhaps Forman and Withypoll would leave now, back to wherever they came. My gut told me I was optimistic.

I shivered and looked over my shoulder in time to see a dark shape slither into the shadow of St Mary-le-Bow. I increased my pace and glanced again. Sure enough, black and lithe, sliding down the side of the street like a snake. I started to run. A figure stepped out into plain view. Long, flowing cloak and legs like twigs. It was the lunatic, Franklin.

I screamed like a woman and ran as fast as I could down Cheapside, swollen knee forgotten. He pursued, cloak flowing behind, fast, like an animal.

I passed the turn to the Guildhall. No purpose in being ripped to pieces in front of a locked gate. The Tower! The Tower was full of soldiers. I veered right down Walbrook, almost slipping in a pile of something slimy and wet. I punched my arms in the air as hard as I could, straining each short leg as far as it would stretch. I felt a stabbing pain in my side, but paid it no heed. I glanced again over my shoulder to see the lunatic not twenty steps behind.

I pivoted left into Cannon Street. By the time I reached the crossroads with Fish Street Hill he closed again. I thought of diving left or right into an alley, in search of some dark cranny where he would never find me, yet good sense told me it would be a mistake. I raced past Mincing Lane. I heard his steps as loud as my own. On to Great Tower Street, fifty yards to go. He screamed, furious. He realised my intentions! Past Barking Church and out onto Tower Hill, the Bulwark Gate in sight. Two sentries stood staring at the sky, watching the sunrise. I cried out and they raised their pikes slowly.

‘Wait!’ one called, jumping into a crouch.

I peeked over my shoulder again. No one there.

‘Godamercy!’ I panted, slowing down, guts threatening to spill out of my throat. I bent over, hands on knees, lungs searing. I peered back into the red light. No one. He must have stopped at the end of Tower Street.

The guard aimed the pike at my shoulder. ‘Who are you?’

‘Harry Lytle,’ I gasped. ‘I was being chased by an escaped lunatic.’

I managed to stand straight, felt the sweat beneath my
armpits, upon my chest, groin and the insides of my legs. My bowel churned and threatened to erupt.

The guard took a step closer, pike still raised. ‘An escaped lunatic?’

‘Aye.’ I crouched again, nursing a sharp pain in my stomach.

I heard footsteps.

‘Good morning,’ said a low voice, one I hadn’t heard before. I gazed up into the face of the lunatic.

Gone was the vacant stare, the naked hunger. The hair about his eyes was growing back, and his brown eyes gazed at me from within a calm face, studied and composed.

‘This is him.’ I stepped back, falling over my feet. ‘This is the man who chased me. He is escaped from Bedlam.’

Franklin’s lip curled into an amused smile. He shrugged and spread his palms wide, laughing as if sharing a joke with the two bemused sentries. He had changed his clothes and trimmed his hair. ‘My name is Edmund Franklin. I am a physician and this is my patient. I have come to take him back to Bedlam.’

‘They know you lie, Franklin.’ I scrambled to my feet. ‘I used to work here, they recognise me.’

Franklin put his hands behind his back. ‘I think not.’

The sentries watched, faces creased in bewilderment. Then one turned to point his pike at my chest. As soon as he moved, Franklin drew a blade from behind his back, long and thin, and with three quick motions stabbed the first sentry through the neck, parried the lunge of the second, and stabbed him through the throat. One lay still, blood gushing from his neck in a short arc, while the other twitched his legs, before he too sprawled motionless.

Franklin stared a moment, then clicked his tongue. He turned to me, unblinking. ‘I just wanted to talk to you, Harry.’

‘Edmund Franklin is a lunatic who hasn’t spoke a word in twenty years,’ I managed to speak. ‘Who are you?’

‘I think you guessed that already.’ He bowed. ‘Thomas Wharton, first Earl of St Albans.’

The two dead men lay upon their sides as if listening to our conversation. He hadn’t needed to kill them. ‘Lately of Bedlam,’ I said.

‘Safe refuge, I thought,’ he replied. ‘For the short time I required it. You found me though, and Chelwood shows more interest than I predicted. So now I have more work to do.’

I peered at his bare chest, visible beneath his unbuttoned shirt. Were those freckles? ‘Chelwood left you exposed.’

‘Indeed.’ Wharton rolled up his sleeves. Though it was warm, his skin seemed to burn, fiery red, covered in a sheet of sweat. A familiar sense of dread declared itself at the base of my stomach.

‘Arlington would have moved quicker were it not for the plague.’ He spoke as if in pain. ‘I counted on his distraction. I did not count on Chelwood’s diligence. He betrayed me.’

‘You used the hiatus to vanish,’ I said, watching him return the sword to his belt. ‘You staged your death, then set about killing your colleagues while they wondered from where the blows were struck.’

Wharton winced, breathing hard. ‘Had I left them to live they would have pursued me.’ He coughed. ‘They know me too well.’ The brown eyes spoke of an iron will, a terrifying ruthlessness.

‘They thought they were your friends.’

Franklin stared blankly. ‘Friends?’

I recognised those freckles for what they were. ‘You have the plague.’

‘Aye, so I do,’ he acknowledged. ‘Which is none of your business. As I said, I have more work to do and so do you. You will meet me at Leadenhall at midnight.’ Pain scored creases about the corners of his mouth. ‘You and Dowling. Not before, not after. You will tell none other.’

He was going to let me go? A surge of hope and fear coursed through me. ‘Very well.’

He laughed, as though he read my mind. ‘Let me tell you my new secret, Harry Lytle. You will not like it.’ The pain disappeared from his eyes and he smiled. ‘I have seized Liz Willis.’

‘No!’ I groaned.

Franklin grinned. ‘Oliver’s daughter, of whom you are most fond.’ He watched me carefully, savouring the pain he saw in my ravaged soul. ‘Though no harm need come to her. Just meet me tonight. Else I shall introduce her to
my
daughter.’

A picture of his deformed child came to mind. ‘You don’t have a daughter.’

‘Yes I do, for I am a scavenger, and my daughter is the scavenger’s daughter. You have heard of the scavenger’s daughter?’ I heard the laughter in his tone.

Indeed. A simple apparatus. A collar for the neck, loops for wrists and ankles. When a man turned the screws, the ankles were drawn closer and closer to the head, squeezing the victim’s knees tighter and tighter to his chest. Once the muscles of his leg were stretched to their limit then they tore, ligaments and tendons pulled tight until they snapped. They say the blood was forced from a man’s fingertips. The chest cavity would be squeezed so hard it became impossible to breathe and the victim died.

‘Why so worried, Lytle?’ he asked. ‘Do you not trust me?’ Then he laughed again, a manic cackle to signal the dawning
of the new day. ‘Leadenhall at twelve,’ he said, then turned and strode back towards the City.

The dawn sky burnt red as a devil returned to Hell. I left the two bodies where they lay and hurried after him.

Though it was not yet six o’clock, Willis’ door stood ajar. I pushed it open and entered the house. Willis himself strode the hallway, fully clothed.

‘Lytle,’ he exclaimed. He blinked, unfocussed, as if he had been up all night. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Where is Liz?’ I demanded.

‘She is missing.’ He marched towards me and seized my shirt in his fists. ‘What do you know of it?’ His hands shook.

Edward appeared from the kitchen, wide-eyed. A maidservant stood upon the stairs, waiting for me to speak.

‘I would prefer we talk alone.’

He pulled back his hands and nodded sharply. ‘Come with me, if you please.’ He turned on one well-built heel and led me to his study, where last we met he banished me. ‘May I give you something to eat or drink?’ he asked, to my surprise.

I shook my head. ‘What happened?’

‘She went out last night to visit a friend and didn’t come back.’ Willis perched on the end of a low, leather-bound chair. ‘When she didn’t return I sent Edward to fetch her back, but they said she left hours before. They live on Mark Lane. It is two minutes away.’

I saw the lines on his forehead, sensed the turmoil inside his head. He blamed himself. Had he left London when he could, Liz would not have been taken. I knew the feeling. Jane, Liz, Burke, the two guards, all would still be alive and well had I not insisted on assuming this idiot assignment.

His head jerked up. ‘You know who took her.’

‘I think so.’ I nodded. ‘But I will not tell you.’

He leapt to his feet and went for my throat, but I pushed him away. ‘I want to find her as much as you do,’ I assured him. ‘But if I tell you who has her, you will endanger her life. You will have to trust me.’

‘Trust you?’ he choked.

‘Aye, trust me. I will have her back before tomorrow morning.’

He levelled a finger at my nose. ‘Tell me who has her.’

‘No.’

He shook his fists in the air and hissed at me through clenched jaws, trembling. ‘It is not your decision to make.’

I headed to the door. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘Sit down,’ he bellowed.

‘My house is affected by plague, Mr Willis, so you will not find me there. You may leave message for me at the Guildhall.’

With that I left him to his misery, having an abundance of mine own.

The only places I could think to search for her were Bedlam and the Clink. Wharton could hardly hide her at Bedlam, and Judkins would be watching the Clink with gimlet eye.

I needed Dowling.

My heart bid me run through the streets without stopping, check if he returned home, interrogate the rector at Christ Church and the other churchwardens. Yet my head stopped me. Wherever Dowling was, he knew Forman and Withypoll were searching. The only place I could think he would go was the Guildhall. Yet was that not an obvious destination besides? If Forman and Withypoll wanted to catch me, that is
where they might go, and whatever happened, I couldn’t miss my appointment with Wharton at the Leadenhall. I had been careless so far. Now I had to employ self-restraint. It was only six of the morning – I had time to prepare.

St Lawrence Jewry was a fair parish church, once a favourite haunt of Sir Thomas More. Within its walls stood thirty-six monuments to various individuals, including two of Anne Boleyn’s ancestors. All very interesting, but not today. Today it would serve as my watchpost. I reached the church through empty streets, confident none could follow without my spotting them. At the church I waited for the bell-ringer, who allowed me to climb the tower upon close inspection of the King’s seal. I told him I watched for Catholic agitators.

From the tower I had clear view of the approach to the Guildhall, New King Street down to Cheapside. The ringing of bells vibrated inside my ears, but wasn’t painful. I perched high enough that none would think to look up, yet close enough to the ground I could make out clothes and discern base features. I settled myself comfortably to watch.

The beaver hat and swaggering gaits betrayed them. Forman and Withypoll arrived before eight o’clock, along Catte Street, from the direction of Newgate. They strode purposefully towards the south gate, and through it. My heart beat as hard as the clappers in the bells as I awaited their return. Or would they leave through the north gate, so I would miss them?

Thirty minutes later they emerged again, alone and walking fast. At that moment I was sure they had him. Dowling wasn’t the sort to hide himself away in hidey-holes. He went about his business with an unshakeable trust in God. At the moment
I
played that role, watching down from my little heaven. Forman and Withypoll turned west again, back down Catte
Street, and I ran downstairs, determined to follow.

By the time I reached the street they were gone, but I hurried down Ladd Lane in time to see them disappear into Maiden Lane, towards St John Zachary. Sure enough they headed directly towards Dowling’s house, which meant I could follow from afar. Ne’ertheless it was all I could do to stop the trembling in my arms and legs, for they chose a path through narrow streets, where curious eyes watched me pick my way across the damp morning cobbles, dancing to avoid the splashes of yet another chamber pot. I couldn’t be sure that none spied on Forman and Withypoll’s behalf, prepared to dash forwards to advise them of my pursuit.

They pushed open Dowling’s door as if they knew he wasn’t home, and stayed inside. Waiting for me, I assumed. I lingered upon the street a short time, conspicuous in my silks, afore slipping into the shop of a fellow I recognised, a butcher friend of Dowling. There I sat, staring at Dowling’s house, not daring to take my eyes off the door.

Three hours later they had still not re-emerged. The sun climbed to its loftiest vantage point, drenching us all in a bath of sticky wetness. In the shop at least we enjoyed a light breeze through the open windows. Dowling’s house baked like an oven with door closed. I wondered how long they would last.

On the stroke of midday they appeared, wiping their faces and picking their clothes from their skin. Withypoll carried his beaver hat in one hand, the first time I saw his naked head. He stood with hands on hips afore kicking angrily at the ground. Forman carried his jacket on his arm and appeared no less
ill-tempered
. They headed south and I followed.