A Plague of Sinners (26 page)

‘Untie us, Lytle!’ Withypoll roared. ‘We have told you all you asked. You untie us now! Then it is in the service of Lord Chelwood and he will see you amply rewarded.’

‘I cannot release you,’ I answered, heavy-hearted. ‘It is too late for that.’

‘Too late?’ Forman hissed.

‘I will come back,’ I promised. ‘First I need to find a letter, or other sign.’

Withypoll rolled about his partner so he could continue to watch me as I walked outside his field of view. ‘Untie us now and we will help you search.’

I mumbled in response afore leaving the room, for I saw no letter there. I followed the path back along the creaking passage and to the top of the stairs. Another passage led off in the opposite direction, unlit and silent. I stepped downstairs back into the hallway. Picture frames and panels. Nothing. Then I saw it tucked beneath my hood on the small yellow table with carved legs. I stopped still and surveyed again the quiet space about me. Was he here with me? If so then I would likely not find him, not if he walked in the dark. I thought to release Forman and Withypoll, set dogs upon the dog, but dismissed the notion, quick. This message was simple.

The night was old, the new day close. The last visit perhaps? A journey I would have to make alone. Was that the purpose of leaving the letter upon my hood – to tell me I was watched?

Then I heard the scream, an anguished wail of terror and dismay. A short silence, then a second scream. Forman and Withypoll discovered their mortality.

I removed the medic’s jacket and left it with the mask.

Fearful of Wharton’s presence, I turned the opposite direction to where Dowling waited. Broad Street was north of the Exchange, a long walk via Thames Street, fifteen minutes or more.

Number seven was tall and thin, the house not much wider than the front door. It was as if someone had decided to live in an alley between two big houses and filled it in. A
mean-looking
abode with glass missing from many of the small square panes that filled the three protruding bay windows, frames rotting, eaten away. Upon the uneven door was painted another red cross, yet no watcher sat upon the street. The paint was old and faded. Were all within already dead, carted away and rotting at Moorfields?

In the tiny front room was space only for a small, square table, upon which rested a child-size coffin, a rudimentary object. Inside, the fragile body of another dead infant covered with thin white cloth. What was it doing here? Where were the parents?

Three planks of wood leant against a wall in the back room. A man crouched in the corner, legs tucked up beneath his chin. He had the same grey skin as Burke and stank like a dead animal. His head was bowed and his ribs were still. Were all here dead?

I climbed the narrow staircase to a small, square room
and scanned the space quick, expecting to see nothing in the gloomy silence. I almost died there and then when I recognised Wharton sat motionless in a chair in the corner.

‘Welcome.’ He held a long-bladed knife down at his leg. ‘Sit down.’

I obeyed, feeling naked and helpless, eyes on the weapon.

He sat back, stiff. ‘Have you enjoyed your evening?’

‘I don’t understand why you killed all those people,’ I said, low. The tokens upon his chest seemed larger now. ‘You will die soon yourself. Did you do it for amusement?’

‘No,’ he smiled, eyes gleaming black. ‘Curiosity.’ He raised his knife, leant across and touched my throat. I stayed as still as I could and averted my eyes. ‘When my men broke Dowling’s thumb, what did you learn about yourself?’

I allowed myself to meet his gaze again. His eyes were so dark you could not tell exactly where he looked. ‘I learnt how brave I am.’

‘How brave are you?’

‘Not very.’

He lowered the knife and tilted his head. ‘Few of us are, Lytle. It is a remarkable thing.’ He held his hand out flat and eased the tip of the blade beneath the fingernail of his own left forefinger. ‘People are terrified at the prospect of having a nail torn from their finger.’ He pushed the tip harder so the nail lifted slightly. ‘Yet it is only a nail. It serves no crucial purpose and it is easy to remove. The pain caused is sharp, but not intolerable, far from it. Yet the fear can drive a man mad. It is not logical.’ Mercifully he lowered his sword and his finger. ‘Pain is not a thing inflicted. Pain comes from within ourselves, yet we cannot control it. Does that not interest you?’

‘I think it is part of the design.’

‘God’s design you mean?’ Wharton wrinkled his nose. ‘Then why cannot all men control it, since some men can? What use is it, this inability to withstand pain? Some men scream in response to the pain you inflict without fear of it. They anticipate its end at the same time they anticipate its arrival.’

I prayed this was not to become a test of my own poor resolve. If it was, then I would have to attack him even though he held that sharp sword. ‘I am not one of those men.’

‘I know,’ Wharton assured me. ‘I have discovered that. You have no need to be ashamed of it either. It doesn’t mean you are a coward. If you were a coward you would not be here now.’

‘What is the fascination in torturing men?’

Wharton rubbed a hand about the top of his head and yawned. ‘Partly the search for that rare man who travels with you to the end of the journey. But more what people will say and not say in an attempt to dissuade you. It speaks instantly to what they hold important in life. I have tortured men of God that have sworn to slit the throats of babies, if it will ease them of the distress I cause them. It is the quickest way I know to discover a man’s soul.’

Did it not occur to him that he was himself a source of this fear, that through his actions he caused men to live in fear for the rest of their lives? That every man he tortured was forced to face a new reality: that a man could inflict this thing upon another man? I myself would never forget the sights I had seen this week. ‘What you have done is a grievous sin.’

‘Aye,’ Wharton agreed softly. ‘I regret what I became.’

I looked to see if he mocked me, but he appeared to speak in earnest. ‘If you regret your life it seems strange you have spent the last week killing people in such savage fashion.’

He smirked. ‘Think who I have killed, Lytle. Is it not obvious?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘If you would kill them at all, why not kill them simply? All you did was attract attention to yourself.’

He held out his sword so it caught the faint light of moon shining through the window. ‘What we did was sinful. I came to recognise it, but I knew the others would not. So it became my destiny to kill them all in the same manner they killed others. It was a service conducted on behalf of all men that I completed tonight.’

‘You killed Death and Famine to suggest Burke was the murderer. What was noble about that?’

‘I didn’t say I was noble,’ Wharton murmured. ‘It was my intention to escape England and see Burke hang for it. I sought no redemption, not until I realised that I am soon to die.’

‘Redemption?’ I said, incredulous. ‘You killed a man of God tonight.’

‘William Perkins was an evil man that brought misery to many people’s lives.’ Wharton shrugged. ‘Did you not say yourself there are devils in the clergy?’

I blinked. ‘You were there when we talked to Perkins?’

Wharton held up his hands. ‘Not I.’

‘I think it unlikely that God desires for you to wander London murdering and maiming his people.’

He stared at me in obvious arrogance. ‘I have rid the City of six men that were as evil as I was, yet would not repent; Morrison and Gallagher, that conspired with me to release poor Bedlamites who we might torture, a cleric whose only message was of hatred, and three murderers besides. I think that makes me a good man.’

‘All these murders then were penance?’

He narrowed his eyes as if he was thinking about being penitent one more time.

‘Why did you abduct Liz?’ I blustered. ‘What do I have to do with your atonement?’

He leant forward, serious. ‘It is necessary when seeking the forgiveness of the Lord that it is
understood
to be an act of penance and not self-interested brutality. I chose you as witness. You are diligent and steadfast. You discovered me at Bedlam and attended your maidservant in your own house, even though it be plagued. You escaped the wrath of Forman and Withypoll, though with some good fortune.’ He regarded me quizzically. ‘I think you are a lucky man.’

A lucky man at the end of a lunatic’s sword. The thought struck me as odd. ‘Why not seek a priest to make your penance? I am not a religious fellow.’

‘You are the witness, Lytle. I said nothing of seeking your forgiveness.’ He turned away. ‘I want all to know what happened and why.’

‘You think they will understand? You are the royal torturer who has just slain more men than I can count in the most bloody, brutal fashion. You think they will see that as an act of repentance?’

He waved a hand as if it were nothing.

I breathed deep, head spinning. ‘How did you manipulate all these people you killed, alone?’

‘A man will always choose to have his wrists bound rather than be run through the guts.’ He read the doubt on my face. ‘I know how to manipulate a man’s fear, Lytle. What would you do now if I demanded that you bind your own wrists to the chair you sit upon?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied.

He held up the blade in front of my eyes. ‘It will occur to you to attack me. You may seriously contemplate it. But then you will find yourself focussed upon this knife and how it will feel slipping between your ribs. Then it will occur to you that if I want to tie you to the chair then perhaps it means I don’t want to kill you.’

‘Is that how it works?’

‘Shall we try it?’

I shook my head.

‘Only Morrison resisted, so I cut his stomach open first, then tied him up.’

I saw Morrison’s agonised stare once more in my mind’s eye. Wharton had left me with a library of legacies that I would never forget. I didn’t want to ask about Liz; I wanted him to tell me she was still alive.

‘Who died at the Vintners’ Hall?’ I asked quietly.

‘My brother,’ he said simply.

I put my hands to my mouth. ‘You killed your own brother?’

He leant forwards and hissed in my ear, a low whisper. ‘I hated it. It was born an aberration, a curse on our family. When it was born my mother stopped smiling and my father left to wander. Neither could fathom what they had done to deserve the birth of one so strange. God touched him on the forehead with his finger. When the child was born the Devil took him. It had to be killed.’

‘But you put him in Bedlam.’

‘Where he belonged. I didn’t expect it to live long. I gained some satisfaction from its suffering and now it is dead.’

‘The child?’

‘It was poxed, so the child was born cursed. It was born at Bedlam and is touched by the finger, so it will die too.’ He shook his head. ‘Though not by my hand.’

He stared silent; the trace of a smile still hung upon his wretched lips. He knew what I wanted to know and would make me ask.

‘Where is Liz Willis?’ I asked, dry-mouthed.

‘The first question on your mind, yet the last question you ask,’ he mused. ‘So you fear I killed her already.’

I breathed slowly and watched his eyes.

‘I turned the screw until her knees pushed back against her chin.’ He licked his lips. ‘Turned the screw until the blood dripped from the ends of her fingers.’

This was a repentant man? His mouth hung open, tongue stroking his top lip. His black eyes gleamed, excited. He coughed, pain in his eyes, then stood, unsteady. ‘Her name is Alice,’ he spluttered. ‘You may find her at the Tower.’

‘Alice?’ It made no sense.

His face reddened, but he grinned anyway. ‘You had better hurry, Lytle,’ he gasped. ‘Else she shall die soon.’ Then he sneezed, an almighty spray of poison, fine droplets flying through the air and landing across my neck and chest, a few upon my lips. I leapt to my feet wiping at my face with my sleeve as he fell forwards.

He lay prone. I stood motionless, unable to believe he might be dead. I turned his body with my foot. His eyes stared at me, unblinking, a slow line of spittle trickling down his chin. The death mask of a man possessed. Perhaps he and his brother were not so different.

I ran down the stairs, past the corpse in the corner and out into the street. Cursed night.

A bell rang five times as I ran across Gracechurch Street, telling all that the sun would rise within the hour. The Bulwark Gate was locked, but it was in poor condition. I pushed hard and
saw the gatehouse lit behind. I flung myself against it backwards, not with hope of breaking through, but in an attempt to wake the guards that no doubt slept soundly within. Upon the third or fourth assault I heard the crunch of splintering wood. So encouraged, I slammed my shoulder against it with renewed rigour, each time the doors pushing forward a little further. Then I stumbled and caught my arm in the chains that held it. I clambered up and checked myself for damage. The hook about which the chain was wound, on the door to the right, broke away from the wood, the metal eaten away by years of rain.

At the gatehouse one man slept, legs splayed, chest heaving in slow rhythm. The other stood wide awake.

‘Halt!’ He ran out with pike aimed at my chest.

I stopped and raised my arms into the air.

‘How did you get in?’ he demanded.

‘The door is broken.’ I walked slowly forwards. ‘I am sent by Lord Arlington. You have a prisoner here called Alice?’

‘Aye.’ He regarded me curiously. ‘Fetched here yesterday. She is in the Salt Tower.’

I ran east ’twixt the Hall Tower and Traitors’ Gate, past the Lanthorn Tower. The Salt Tower was locked, though lights burnt at the upper windows. I banged my fist upon the door until the lock turned.

‘It’s early,’ the guard complained, shirt unfastened and trousers unbuttoned. His hair sat flat on the right side of his head and stuck up in tufts on the left.

I showed him my credentials. ‘The prisoner, Alice. Where is she?’