A Plague of Sinners (9 page)

We arrived at Burke’s house before sunrise. Yet even as we arrived he clambered into a smart blue coach, which quickly departed, trundling across the empty cobbles, too fast for us to follow. ‘Boggins!’ I cursed.

I ran across the street and knocked upon the door. The servant who answered glowered furiously from beneath perspiring brow. ‘I have an appointment with Henry Burke,’ I lied.

‘He’s gone,’ snapped the servant.

I feigned puzzlement. ‘How peculiar. He was quite specific he wished to meet at six. He sought my advice on financial matters.’

The servant relaxed like I was the King himself, ready to cure all with a touch of his finger. The floor behind was dusty and unswept. A faded tapestry hung choking behind thick
layers of dirt. ‘Financial matters, you say? Are you his banker?’

‘Aye, his banker,’ I agreed. ‘But he is gone, you say?’

The servant scowled. ‘He won’t be back for a week or more. Says he’ll pay us when he returns.’

‘A week or more?’ I pursed my lips. ‘Very well. Ask him to write upon his return and perhaps we might arrange another meeting. In September, perhaps.’

‘Are you sure you are not supposed to meet him at the Guildhall?’ The servant nudged me out onto the street. ‘He said he is meeting someone there.’

‘Ah!’ I raised both brows. ‘Of course.’

The servant shooed me away. ‘Go then. Hurry!’

I walked as fast as I could, conscious the servant stood watching me. Dowling caught me up once we reached the quiet splendour of Cornhill.

‘To the Guildhall,’ I urged him, breaking into a trot.

Our steps echoed loud upon the empty cobbles, all hawkers and criers now banned by the Plague Orders. A cat disappeared down an alley, a rare sight since the Guildhall ordered them killed. A pale face stared out of a window, then quickly withdrew.

New King Street led into the heart of the Guildhall, the wide courtyard surrounded on all sides by the palatial magnificence of the hall itself. The street ploughed straight through the middle of the yard, up to the black mouth of the main entrance. Usually this courtyard was full of people, for the Guildhall stood at the heart of the City, but at this hour and in these times, it was deserted, save for three men stood together in the middle of the vast cobbled square. One was Burke. We stopped on Lothbury to spy from afar.

Burke stood with two big bags at his feet, talking to the
same two men he met the night before. The fair-haired man took one bag, then led him back towards where we hid. We withdrew into the early morn shadow and watched them pass by. The dark-haired man walked behind, strolling slowly, and we gave them long leash.

On Cheapside they stopped at the Tun, once a lock-up and now a cistern. Burke’s attendants leant languid against the battlements, facing east, while Burke stood with arms folded, fidgeting and staring south. They waited a while before the fair fellow led Burke away again, leaving the older man behind.

‘You think he waits for others?’ I whispered.

‘No,’ Dowling growled. ‘Methinks they are cautious.’

He pulled me by the sleeve down the narrowest of filthy alleys, floor awash with thick streams of feculence, onto Ironmonger Lane, and through the grounds of the Mercers’ Hall. We emerged onto Cheapside in time to see Burke and the younger man turn down Bucklersbury, a narrow street winding south and east. We scuttled after them, sticking to the shadows of the black eaves.

I cast a glance west to see if the other noticed us, but he had gone. We hurried down Walbrook, sticking to the shadows. They dashed across the crossroads with Cannon Street, not once looking back. Again I glanced behind as we hastened after them, afraid the other followed us. A wolf ahead and a wolf behind. Not a pleasant prospect. Dowling grabbed me by the coat and dragged me this time into the mouth of Tun Wheel Lane. Burke and partner disappeared out of sight towards Thames Street.

I wrenched at his hand. ‘We will lose them!’

‘Wait,’ he urged. Sure enough, the older man slipped out of the entrance to Elbow Lane, swarthy-faced and watchful. I
held my breath as he scanned north and south before heading after the other two.

‘How did you know?’ I whispered, hoarse.

‘I felt it,’ Dowling answered. ‘They are sly. Now we keep going.’ He crept out back onto Dowgate Hill and set off again.

The older man turned right onto Thames Street, back towards the Vintners’ Hall, then left to the river.

Three Crane Lane was grim and dark, even in the early morning sunshine. The houses on one side stretched over the alley leaning against the houses from the other, shutting out all light from above. The air hung rank and foul, a steaming brown cloud. Insects swarmed about my head, an army of bloated overfed flies, guarded at their flanks by an assortment of other insects – biting, stinging and cutting. Large black rats sat brazenly in the open, chewing upon the rotten debris that coated the alley floor in a thick layer of slippery slime. I could barely discern the outline of the man we followed. He steadied himself with hands against both walls as he made his way down the slope. Then he vanished into a doorway halfway down.

We waited at the top of the passage to see what transpired. Soon we heard faint chattering and saw two black shadows form amidst the murk. Burke’s two guardians trod gingerly up the incline, heads lowered, arms out to their sides, balancing. We dropped back to the corner of Sopar Lane, from where we saw them brush down their fine clothes and smack their hands together afore heading west.

We tarried a while, cautious they might return, afore venturing downwards. I feared I might fall with every step, it was so slippery. We slithered down the hill as if skating on ice.

The house loomed tall and narrow, a decrepit stack of timber leaning forward into the alley as though it would keel
over and die. Small, rotten windows framed black glass, never cleaned. The front door stood propped open by an ankle-deep pile of shit and filth.

I stepped over the heap of rubbish into the room beyond, a cramped space five paces square. The stink pervaded my nostrils like soup and lingered on the back of my tongue. I wanted to choke. I heard sounds of rustling, moving, faint squealing in the inky blackness.

There was a staircase in the corner. A sharp screech sounded close to my foot as I trod on something. The boards of the stair appeared bent and twisted. I eased my weight gently down upon the first step. It creaked loud, serving as a trumpet to announce our presence. I cursed and withdrew my foot.

‘It is quiet up there,’ I whispered.

‘Aye, and dark.’ Dowling nudged me forwards. ‘He must be at the top of the house.’

The second step took my weight without complaint. Yet every other step squeaked or squealed, especially beneath Dowling’s ponderous weight. By the time we reached the top of the stairs my skin prickled from head to toe, anticipating an attack at any moment from whoever waited above.

As my eyes accustomed to the gloom, I made out a mattress on the floor, thin and uneven, straw poking out of numerous small holes that peppered it like a long cheese. The smell was foul, wet and putrid.

By my reckoning there was but one set of steps left to climb. I peered up the stairway, discerning light at last. Still no sound, just the noise of my pounding heart and the low hiss of Dowling’s laboured breathing. There seemed little to be gained by attempting to walk quietly, so I leapt up the stairs two at a time and jumped out into the space above.

‘What in God’s name are
you
doing here?’ an angry voice barked. Burke glared, his glistening face burning fiery red.

‘We followed you,’ I replied truthfully.

Shards of light shone through tiny holes in the roof, onto the bent back of an artist sat hunched over a canvas clamped to an easel. He worked quickly, squirrel-hair brushes dancing in swirls of thick paint. ‘You should not have come,’ the artist said, without turning round.

Burke’s two bags lay upon a cot in the corner of the room, beneath his jacket and coat. Next to the cot stood a small table with jug and a plate.

‘Is this where you plan to stay the next few weeks?’ I asked, incredulous. The air was stale and putrescent, the walls damp. Mould grew upon the rafters, green and grey.

Burke squeezed his knees together and clenched his fists. ‘Who are you? How dare you follow me!’

The artist turned. ‘They are agents of Lord Arlington. Harry Lytle and David Dowling.’ He looked to me with bright, intelligent eyes, shining out from a dirty face that had not been shaved for a week or more. ‘Is it not so?’

The breath stuck in my lungs. How did he know?

Burke sneered, pebble eyes hid beneath a long dark brow. ‘Spies then?’

‘Investigators,’ Dowling snarled. ‘You are the one skulking about London afraid to show your face.’

Burke straightened his jacket and lifted his chin. ‘You said your name was Baker,’ he said to me. ‘You tried to get me to tell you things at The Mermaid last night.’ He strode to where the artist still painted. ‘I told him nothing, of course.’

‘You told me a lord guaranteed your transaction with Wharton,’ I reminded him.

‘I did not tell you which lord though, did I?’ He watched the artist, eyes wide and fearful. ‘Tell him!’

The artist kept on painting. What was happening here? Burke did not present as a man with the wit or resolve to commit the murders we witnessed. He seemed scared of the painter, had seemed intimidated by the two men that fetched him here. ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘You would not tell me that, nor would you tell Lord Arlington.’

‘So you persecute me then, hound me. It is your doing I find myself in this poor hovel.’ He put a hand to his nose and regarded the walls like they would close in and bury him.

‘Hardly our doing,’ Dowling snorted. ‘Two men are dead. Wharton at the Vintners’ Hall, as you clearly know, and another at The Bull Head, pulled from a vat of wine supplied by you.’

Burke blinked. ‘Not by me, sir. I can assure you.’

‘Aye, sold by you,’ Dowling said. ‘Delivered two days ago with a dead man inside it, belly full of wine and a cork in his throat.’

Burke opened his mouth and put his hands to his chin. He resembled an outraged washerwoman.

‘What
have
you been doing, Burke?’ the artist murmured. ‘I didn’t realise what a murderous beast you really are.’

‘None of it my doing,’ Burke protested. ‘Wharton cheated me, but what good is it to me he is dead? It will not get my money back.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Revenge? Once he persuaded you your money was gone.’

He held out his hands as if he expected me to tie them. ‘I have never killed a man, and if I did, would I kill him in my barrels, with my bottles?’

The artist sighed deeply and leant back upon his stool. ‘Burke did not kill Wharton, gentlemen. Surely that much is clear.’ He stretched and yawned. ‘You ought not have come here.’

I stepped forward to see what he painted. A large room, taller than ten men. A long gallery halfway up the wall and a man hanging by the neck.

‘What do you call it?’ I asked, mouth dry.

‘
God’s Black Finger
,’ he replied, cocking his head. ‘Do you not recognise it?’

‘I do,’ I nodded. ‘I recognise it very well, though I doubt the deed was God’s doing.’ I peered closer into the shadows of the gallery. Three men stood talking. ‘You were there?’

‘Not I.’ The artist selected a fine brush and began to colour the fine clothes of the man in the middle. My clothes. Dowling was recognisable besides, and a giant in a black cloak. The perspective was from the far wall, someone well hidden.

‘Then who?’

The artist laid down his brush and palette, and turned to me, mouth sad and regretful. ‘It matters not, Lytle. You should not have come.’

Dowling leant and placed his mouth against the artist’s ear. ‘What is your name?’

‘John Tanner,’ he answered. ‘As I don’t mind you knowing.’ He tidied his brushes. ‘For you will discover nothing else about me.’

His conceited arrogance pricked me hard. I drew back my hand and sent the brushes flying across the room. ‘Talk to us,’ I commanded. ‘Who do you work for?’

He raised his brow and watched a brush roll slowly towards the top of the stair. ‘I’ll not tell you that,’ he replied calmly. ‘Nor will he.’ He caught Burke’s attention for a moment, his
slate-grey eyes steady and hard. ‘Leave now. While you can.’

Fury welled within, which he watched without a trace of fear, only curiosity. As though he planned to paint my portrait. I felt naked and exposed.

‘We will come back,’ I said through gritted teeth.

Tanner set to gathering his brushes from the floor. ‘I doubt it,’ he grunted. ‘Though should you prove me wrong, then I will be delighted to show you the finished painting.’ He stood straight and bowed. ‘Farewell, gentlemen.’

Dowling looked as frustrated as I, brow sunk over the bridge of his nose.

Tanner turned to Burke, who stood quaking by the easel. ‘You might as well go with them,’ he said, afore sitting back upon his stool. ‘You cannot stay here now.’ He dipped a brush and commenced painting once more, ignoring us all.

Burke watched him, uncertain what to do. He dithered a while, fidgeting, afore walking slowly over to the cot. He let himself fall upon it and lay on his back, head behind his hands.

We left.

‘What now?’ I exclaimed, as we scrambled back up towards the street.

‘All is not simple as it seems,’ said Dowling. ‘I will try and find out who John Tanner is, and those other two besides. Seems they know more about the murders than Burke does.’

‘Aye,’ I agreed, miserably. A simple assignment became complex. We emerged back onto Thames Street.

‘I have to buy a bell-rope,’ Dowling announced grim-faced. ‘I will meet you at dinnertime.’

‘I will go to the Willis house,’ I said, unable to think where else to go. I could not face Jane. ‘I will come to your house by eleven.’