A Plague of Sinners (8 page)

‘All curiosity is idle,’ I replied. ‘I drank alone when you came in and disturbed my peace.’

‘Nay, nay.’ He shook his head sharply. ‘I have lived long enough now to smell deception. God knows I have experienced sufficient of it, and I smell it about your person as strong as old cheese. Methinks I saw you at my house earlier this afternoon. So now I will take your leave.’

I remained seated as he stood. Then he leant across and spoke low and wet into my ear. ‘Beware that coarse lout,’ he warned. ‘Methinks he will wait for you on the street. When he talks to a man that way he usually means to kill him.’

I finished my ale and left through the other door, hurrying out onto Friday Street where I prayed Dowling awaited. The street was dark and quiet. I placed a hand upon my chest and breathed deliberately slowly. I didn’t want to leave this place alone. A heavy hand landed upon my shoulder.

‘Your breath stinks of ale,’ Dowling whispered into my ear.

‘Burke insisted,’ I replied, hiding my relief. ‘Now walk me to Cheapside.’ I still had one last errand to run before curfew, a task to be completed without Dowling.

At Seething Lane Liz opened the door before I finished knocking. I reckoned she waited by the door for her father’s return. Her lips were blue and the skin about her cheeks stretched dry and tight. I felt guilty I had not come straight from Cripplegate.

‘Did Oliver find him?’ I asked, praying he got there before me.

Her eyes ranged the cobbled street behind, hair gently rippling in the evening breeze. ‘He is not returned.’

The nerves in my gut shrunk upon themselves. ‘I’m sorry.’ I stepped back into the street.

‘Why did you come, Harry?’ she asked, distracted.

Trapped. ‘I found James.’

She held herself tight about her chest. ‘Where?’

In the pit by now. I eased into the house, determined to talk where she might grieve in private. I climbed the same stairs we climbed that morning, she following.

Once she entered the room she slammed the door closed behind and stood afront of me, legs apart, fists clenched. ‘I asked you where?’

‘I found him at the Cripplegate Pesthouse,’ I said. ‘You said he was fevered. So he was.’

She clasped her hands to her mouth, misunderstanding what I tried to explain. ‘God have mercy! We must make sure he is well cared for.’

I caught a breath and felt my face flush. ‘I am sorry, Liz, but James died.’

She didn’t weep, nor scream, nor indeed react much at all. Her face paled from white to whiter, and the fingers of her clasped hands clawed at each other.

‘Well then,’ she whispered. She hesitated a moment. ‘Thank you for coming, Harry.’ She shivered, opened her mouth and closed it again, then walked quickly from the room, taking a piece of my pickled soul with her. I trudged home, exhausted and miserable.

My plans to go straight to bed were thwarted. Jane stood afront of me so I couldn’t pass, dress billowing as though fanned by
some gust of fury emanating from somewhere betwixt her legs. She held the remnants of my burnt clothes up against my nose. ‘Where have you been?’

I attempted to squeeze past, but she threw herself against the wall to prevent it. In her rage she forgot to maintain the distance between us and I felt the wetness of her breath against my throat. I stopped trying to escape and moved so she breathed against my mouth. ‘Bedlam,’ I confessed.

Her arms fell to her sides. ‘Bedlam?’

‘Aye.’

‘And did you see the pit there?’ she hissed.

‘Aye, I did.’

‘Full, was it?’

‘Aye, full,’ I said. ‘You can smell it this side of Cripplegate.’

‘You can smell it this side of
Watling Street
!’

I placed a hand on her shoulder. An image of the black bubo upon the dying woman’s neck shaped itself unbidden in my mind, swollen and growing still. ‘Aye, terrible to behold.’

She threw my hand away. ‘You walk into the midst of it and bring it back with ye.’

I stepped quickly past. ‘I burnt all my clothes and smoked a pipe.’

She pushed me in the back as I headed towards the kitchen. ‘Why go there at all?’

‘The King,’ I answered.

‘The King,’ she repeated slowly, ‘asked you to go to Bedlam?’

‘In a manner.’

‘What manner? The King left London two weeks ago.’

‘Lord Arlington then,’ I conceded.

‘Lord Arlington told you to go to Bedlam?’

I edged about the kitchen table so it stood between us. ‘He told us to find out who killed Thomas Wharton. His wife told us to go to Bedlam,’ I lied.

‘What is at Bedlam?’

‘A lot of lunatics and a pest pit.’

‘What is that to do with the death of her husband?’

‘That remains to be established.’

‘The King is at Hampton Court,’ she repeated, fury mounting within her slender frame.

I took a step towards the stairs. ‘Aye, Jane, so he is, and we are still here in London where I will likely remain until I find out who killed Thomas Wharton.’

‘Harry.’ She seized my jacket and gazed into my eyes. ‘We must leave
soon
, afore it is too late.’

I pulled away. ‘Then I must find out who killed Wharton soon, afore it is too late.’ I was tired, too tired to talk. I ignored the hurt I saw in her face and hurried upstairs afore I said something even more loathsome. I crept into bed feeling like the Devil himself.

Just as my eyes closed so Dowling’s fist pounded at the door.

We heard the crowd before we saw the light. A hundred men at least. Half the gathering stood back, watching, torches held high. The other half formed a tight, heaving mass, surging again and again against the front of The Bull Head tavern. Apprentices mostly, giving vent to their ungratified appetence. I kept my distance, anxious to avoid the mass of sweaty bodies, wet and dripping. Somewhere in the tavern afore us another man was murdered.

‘They gathered two hours ago,’ Dowling said. ‘As soon as the killing was discovered.’

‘Why?’

Dowling put his mouth to my ear. ‘Every event is a sign these days, Harry. If a man is murdered in a tavern, then God is angry with those who drink.’

Which was ludicrous. It wasn’t Satan who turned the water
into wine. I stood upon the tips of my toes, yet still couldn’t see what happened at the front of the throng.

‘How will we get in?’ I asked Dowling, for he was taller.

‘The only way is through.’ Dowling looked east. ‘They have blocked the alleyway leading to the back.’

‘Hold!’ a deep voice cried. The crowd hushed a moment, a pack of dogs scenting new prey. ‘Hold!’ it cried again, from near the tavern door.

‘Is that Benson shouting?’ I asked. The landlord.

‘No,’ Dowling stretched his neck. ‘It’s Andrew Vincent, standing on a box.’ Which explained why Dowling’s jaw twitched.

Vincent was a dissenter, forbidden to preach by the Conventicle Act. Yet with so many clergymen having fled London, many parishes welcomed any man of God with open arms. Since most of the church and the court left London weeks ago, few resisted their reappearance. Just Sir John Robinson and his garrison at the Tower. Dowling bristled like a wounded bear.

We eased our way forwards, Dowling barging aside ill-tempered adolescents. We closed to within ten paces of Vincent, close enough to see the deep lines scored upon his mouldering white head. His voice belied his age, echoing cavernous and rich. He lifted a finger to his lips and created a hush.

‘Come forth, all you drunkards,’ he exclaimed, ‘who have intoxicated your brains with the fumes of excessive drinking.’ The apprentices voiced their appreciation, forbidden to drink by their masters, jealous of those that partook. The crowd squeezed in on us, greasy, malodorous and vicious.

‘Come forth, you who have drowned your natural wit and ingenuity, which might have rendered you useful in the church where you lived.’ Vincent opened his arms as if he
would welcome the whole crowd into his house, and paused to observe the effect of his words. A vein pulsed upon his forehead and his skin turned red. ‘You would have your strong drink without measure, and now also you shall have a cup to drink the wine of the wrath of the almighty God. By the wine of the wrath of God, we mean especially the dregs and bottom of it; the great
plague
and other eternal punishments of Hell!’ He lifted his arms to the heavens and the apprentices howled. ‘It will be most fierce, and so powerful that all the powers of men and devils shall be unable to make the least resistance.’

Two apprentices eyed my silk jacket and twitched their noses. I dug a fist into Dowling’s ribs. ‘We have to keep going,’ I whispered.

Vincent sucked in a deep breath. ‘The wrath of God will come upon all the hypocrites. The hypocrites are those full of rottenness. They make it their business to appear religious, but are rotten at heart and cover carnal designs with a cloak of profession. As their sin is most offensive unto God here, so his wrath will certainly come upon them with the greatest severity hereafter.’ The crowd roared as one, sensing the possibility of redemption, for now he laid the blame for their sins at the feet of the clergy – those wretched cowards that fled the City.

I pushed harder against Dowling’s back.

A long, thin face leant towards me and breathed foulness into my face. ‘Where are you going?’ it spluttered.

‘Into the tavern,’ I replied, wiping spittle from my face.

‘You dare defy God’s word?’ he bellowed, ensuring others turned to watch.

‘We are King’s men,’ I assured him, expressionless, ‘and the King is God’s agent on earth. We are sent here to investigate this murder.’

He leered. ‘It is the act of the Lord God himself.’

An interesting theory, though hard to prove. Dowling looked over his shoulder. I caught his eye and jerked a thumb forward. He shoved hard, leaning into the wall of bodies afore us, pulling men aside by the collar. At the tavern door half a dozen apprentices exchanged insults with a gang of burly watchmen, pug-faced and ugly, itching to crack heads.

‘John Cummins,’ I called, recognising a short man amongst the watchers, flat-headed, with a scar upon his forehead.

‘Harry!’ He slid through the pack and stuck out his hand, wide grin slapped across his face. ‘I haven’t seen you for weeks. What you doin’ here?’

‘We’ve come to see the body.’ I waved a hand at Dowling. ‘We work for Lord Arlington.’

Cummins looked Dowling up and down. ‘Him? He looks like a butcher.’

‘He is a butcher and he works for the King too. We need to pass through, John.’ Apprentices surrounded us, listening to our conversation with dull expressions.

Cummins stepped backwards into his colleagues, creating a corridor through which we gratefully passed. His smile vanished when two apprentices attempted to follow. He punched one in the stomach, the other fled.

Behind the front door George Monck watched down upon us with fierce intent from within a thick, gold frame, silver armour draped in blue velvet. In the background a naval scene, the return of Charles to England, I supposed. It was Monck who financed Charles to return to England in 1660, then famously held audience at this very tavern, drinking sack and doing his business.

I knew The Bull Head well, knew what a maze it was for
the drunk and disoriented. The door to the left stood ajar. Four men sat about a round table playing at cards, mugs afront of them, legs laid out loose.

‘What cheer?’ I pronounced.

‘All is cheerful,’ replied one of them, face screwed up in concentration. ‘So long as you don’t drink the wine.’

The other three laughed as if it was the funniest joke in London. They all stank like they hadn’t washed for a year, the acrid odour tempered by the thick cloud of tobacco smoke.

‘Have you not drunk enough?’ Dowling declared, disgusted.

‘We can’t get out,’ protested one, laying a card upside down. ‘They are all out there shouting of the evils of drink.’ He belched.

‘Where is Benson?’ I asked. The landlord and lessee.

The man jerked a thumb then played a card. ‘Back there with the barrel.’ He shivered and shook his hands.

We left them to it and made our way deeper into the building through a passage bright with candles. More paintings of Monck, some of Charles II, lots of ships and battle scenes. We emerged into the main room where Monck had held court all those years ago. Long tables stretched the length of the room, mostly empty. Three men stood about a giant cask of wine in the corner.

‘Benson,’ I called out. ‘What’s the story?’

A tall fellow with grey hair turned calm brown eyes upon me. ‘Good day to you, Harry Lytle.’

‘This is David Dowling.’ I pointed at Dowling again. It felt strange dragging the pious butcher round taverns.

Benson stepped forth to shake Dowling’s hand before standing back to fold his arms. ‘Haven’t had the barrel but two days. Tap stopped flowing this morning so I stuck a hook
up the tap and poked it against something solid. Took the lid off and found the body.’

The top of the cask had been opened with an axe. A mop of black hair broke the surface and a pair of man’s knees. The body was pushed in tight with thighs up against its chest; a big body. Dowling reached down and lifted the head up straight. Large nose, thick brow and heavy, square jaw.

Dowling peered into the half-open eyes. ‘Recognise him?’

‘No,’ I answered, feeling sick. I looked to Benson.

Benson shrugged. ‘None of us know who he is.’

‘You hadn’t opened the cask before?’ I asked.

Benson shook his head. ‘Only just delivered. Must have come with him inside it.’

‘Time to get him out of it.’ Dowling rolled up his sleeves. ‘What are your names?’ he asked Benson’s men.

‘Cuttinge,’ said one.

‘Sadler,’ said the other.

‘One arm each, gentlemen, and I will take his legs,’ Dowling instructed, eyeing my fine jacket. ‘Mr Lytle here is squeamish.’

The three of them took off their poor jackets and shirts.

‘Lift him by the arms, fellows.’ Dowling pushed them forwards. They stared into the wine, reluctantly. ‘There is no art to it,’ Dowling urged, impatiently.

Cuttinge sighed and Sadler stuck out his bottom lip afore both bowed down and touched the corpse upon the shoulders.

‘He is slippery,’ Cuttinge complained.

‘Get a grip on him,’ Dowling growled.

They leant down, grasped the body gingerly, and attempted to lever him up straight.

Dowling peered up from beneath his grey brow, patience waning. ‘You need to pull harder.’

‘He’s big,’ Cuttinge gasped, tugging.

Dowling walked about briskly and helped Sadler get a grip upon the man’s wet skin. ‘Stand him up and I’ll lift him by the legs.’

The three of them heaved the body up high, grunting loud. Sadler grappled it about the chest and attempted to drive backwards with his feet, but slipped over and hit the ground hard. The body slid back into the vat of wine until Dowling seized it by the underarms. Sadler beat his fist upon the floor and cursed out loud, then leapt to his feet in foul temper. This time they organised themselves more effectively and succeeded in working the body free and easing it to the floor.

‘God save our souls,’ Benson said, solemn. The huge figure lay upon its back like a great hairy baby, legs akimbo, belly round and distended, mouth hanging loose. His skin gleamed and the black hair all about his body lay in long bedraggled mats. I could not help but regard his long, thin yard, trailing proudly to the floor.

Dowling knelt and rubbed his hands gently upon the man’s bulging stomach. ‘Hard as a drum,’ he pronounced, curious.

‘The dead bloat, do they not?’ said Benson.

‘Not like this.’ Dowling prodded hard with one finger. ‘His belly is full, stretched unnatural.’ He pushed down with both palms. ‘I reckon he be full of wine.’

‘Oddfish,’ I reckoned.

Dowling stuck a finger betwixt the man’s wet jaws, then scratched his head and returned to the barrel. ‘No man could drink this much. Someone forced him to drink.’ He searched for a cup and dipped it in the cask before holding it up to the light. ‘Vomit.’

‘Best not tell the customers,’ said Benson.

Sadler moaned and stuck out his tongue. Cuttinge put a hand upon his own stomach and paled. Beads of sweat erupted from his temples.

‘He was alive when they dropped him in the barrel.’ Dowling placed the cup upon a tabletop. ‘Yet I don’t understand why there be not more vomit in the wine, for with that much fluid in his stomach, he could not help but discharge it.’ He rubbed a finger upon the body’s lips. ‘You can see foam about his mouth, but not much of it.’

He pulled the man’s lip down with his fingers. Something caught his eye and he peered deeper into the mouth. ‘There is bruising here.’ He pushed two fingers down the man’s throat and ran his fingers up and down.

‘Perhaps he was a fat man,’ Benson suggested. ‘Most fat men’s bellies are hard.’

‘No.’ Dowling struggled to his feet and scratched his head, perplexed. He stared at the offending gut as though he wished to burst it.

Benson nudged me in the ribs. ‘When can you take him away?’

‘Stand aside,’ Dowling muttered. He stepped up so his feet touched the torso, then turned round so his heels were against the ribcage. He crouched and leant back with his right hand to hold the body’s face flat against the floor, then launched himself upon the swollen stomach with all his weight. He looked over his shoulder to see what effect he had, then bounced again as hard as he could. He kept bouncing, grunting with the exertion.

‘Have ye known him long, Harry?’ Benson whispered.

‘Aye,’ I nodded. ‘He doesn’t frequent taverns. What are you doing, Davy?’

‘Wait.’ He turned about, placed one palm upon the other, both upon the corpse’s belly, and pushed as hard as he could. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed triumphantly, as a flood of wine and gastric juices gushed from the corpse’s mouth. He reached down into the vile stream and extracted a long smooth cylinder, a thick cork. ‘Whoever killed him filled him with wine, then pushed this down his throat. He died of suffocation.’

Benson watched the contaminated wine flow across his floor and sighed.

‘Where did you get this barrel from?’ I asked.

‘Same as always,’ Benson said. ‘Henry Burke.’