A Plague of Sinners (21 page)

‘Lord Chelwood!’ he called out clear.

‘Why did they take you to John Tanner’s house?’ I asked.

He laughed, a broken sound. ‘All I wanted was some recompense.’ He looked to me like I might make his life whole again.

‘I’m sorry, Burke.’

He lifted his chin. ‘I will declare mine iniquity and be sorry for my sins.’

‘Why did they take you to John Tanner’s house?’ I repeated.

‘Lord Chelwood guaranteed Wharton’s wine deal. He sent Forman and Withypoll to talk to me after Wharton was killed, said he would hide me away until the real killer was found.’ He looked to me with the flicker of a flame in his dull eyes. ‘Then when you followed me, they put me in here.’

‘Who is Lord Chelwood to you?’ I asked.

‘No one.’ He sat upon the bench, oblivious to the body afore him. ‘Just the man who guaranteed I would be paid, so it said on the document Wharton gave me.’

‘Forman and Withypoll work for him?’

‘And they will kill you as well.’ He waved a hand at the bodies about him. ‘You and the butcher.’

‘God bless you, Burke,’ I said quietly.

Burke bowed his head.

I pulled the mask back down over my head and hurried out the cells, leaving the door open behind me.

The Assistant would need more boxes.

I returned to Newgate up the Old Bailey, outside the wall, for though I saw no sign of Forman nor Withypoll, I feared they might lie in waiting for me in the shadows of St Paul’s.

Dowling’s house sat quiet and empty, no sign of his cart neither, so I dropped off the medic’s clothes and waited a while. If Forman and Withypoll pursued us, then this was no safe place. Where would Dowling go? If Forman and Withypoll had taken him, they would not have been chatting idly on Ave Maria Street.

I saw no one out the window. Orange streaks slashed the purple sky and candles flickered in the first dusk. The only place I could fathom he would hide was the Guildhall. The Guildhall indeed, for it was a public place where none could molest a man undeterred.

I left the house and hurried down Newgate Market towards
Cheapside, keeping to the shadows of the eaves. Still I didn’t see my assailant before he stepped out of the alley mouth and smashed a wooden club across my stomach.

A heavy hand descended upon my head and pulled my chin up into the air. ‘Lytle,’ hissed a familiar voice.

War’s blue eyes shone bright and alert. Creases and stains adorned his black cloak. The hand on my shoulder squeezed so tight, my arm went numb. The last of Wharton’s dogs running wild.

‘Time to talk,’ he whispered hoarsely. He grabbed the scruff of my jacket and pulled me to my feet. I bent back over double, the muscles of my stomach crying out in agony.

The tip of a sword pressed against the small of my back. ‘We don’t have time, Lytle. Forman and Withypoll followed you earlier. They may still. Move.’ He pressed the blade deeper into my flesh and steered me south.

‘I am not going to the river.’ I stood my ground. ‘It’s a long way and I can shout very loud.’

He smiled thinly. ‘I could slice off your head where you stand.’

‘So you could, but you have come to talk, have you not?’ My heart beat so hard my voice trembled. ‘Else you would have sliced off my head already. St Paul’s is closer.’

He snorted. ‘You take me for a fool? We are not going to Paul’s, nor anywhere else public.’

‘Then let’s go to the graveyard of St Vedast.’ I thought fast. ‘The lock to the gate is broken and we will be the only ones there.’

He sneered. ‘What is at St Vedast?’

I attempted to stand straight. ‘Nothing is at St Vedast. I used to play there as a child, and I know we can talk undisturbed.’

‘St Vedast then,’ he ceded, eyeing the quiet houses about us. ‘Betray me and I will cut your throat back to your spine.’

I led him across Cheapside and up Foster Lane to the small churchyard with high walls. The lock to the gate broke more than twenty years ago. It creaked loudly as I swung it open, hinges rusted and arthritic. Not much better than the river, I reflected, as I led him onto the gravel path, for he could do as he willed to me here without fear of being disturbed.

It was as well I knew this place, for the moon showed us little. The headstones stood white, grey and green, those I could make out in the darkness. I felt naked and exposed as we walked away from the gate.

I followed the wide arc of the path to the left, feet crunching loud upon the stones, until we reached the familiar stone seat tucked beneath the giant oak. Crooked branches cast crazed black shadows behind which War might feel secure. A great wave of ivy tumbled down upon the seat, falling from the wall behind.

War sat cautiously and peered out into the night. ‘What did Burke tell you?’

‘You have been following me,’ I realised.

War turned his craggy face towards mine. He resembled a chopping block, a multitude of scars incised upon his face. ‘Answer me.’

‘He told me it was Lord Chelwood who guaranteed your wine deal,’ I replied.

‘It took you five days to discover it,’ War snorted.

‘Had you confided in us instead of torturing us, perhaps your friends would still be alive,’ I answered, irked.

War held his sword out afront of him, catching the light of the dying moon upon the blade. ‘You work for Lord Arlington.’

‘What of it?’ I hissed. ‘You tortured Dowling because we work for Arlington, yet wouldn’t tell us why.’

‘Arlington or Perkins. One of them killed Wharton, and the others besides.’

‘Why so?’ I demanded. ‘What of Forman and Withypoll?’

‘Forman and Withypoll want to kill you, Lytle. They don’t want to kill me, nor Wharton.’

‘Why?’

‘You first,’ War growled. ‘What have you found out since last we met?’

‘I do have a thought,’ I replied. ‘But I will not share it with you until you tell me what you know.’

War held the tip of his sword to my thigh, but I pushed it aside. He stared at me, teeth bared and eyes narrowed, but did nothing. He seemed smaller tonight. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘We have as long as we need, after all.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Chelwood was Wharton’s master. He directed foreign affairs in the King’s name and pledged to manage those that fought against the King at home. Charles had need to appear magnanimous when restored and only those that signed his father’s execution warrant were officially put to death.’

I felt disgusted. ‘You and Wharton were the King’s secret executioners?’

‘Not the King.’ War lowered his voice. ‘The King makes sure he knows only what he needs to. He trusted Chelwood to ensure his transition was peaceful and that the guilty were punished.’

‘You murdered men at Chelwood’s behest. You killed Roger Cline’s son.’

‘We seized the guilty and did what was needed to discover the truth.’

‘The King was restored five years ago,’ I said. ‘What have you been doing all this time?’

‘Ask your master that. He plotted against the Earl of St
Albans e’er since he discovered what services he provided, just because he would see Chelwood disgraced.’

I didn’t understand. ‘You think Lord Arlington killed the Earl to disgrace Lord Chelwood?’

‘No, I think he killed Wharton because he
could
, once he persuaded the King to send Chelwood to Ireland, leaving us exposed.’

It made no sense. ‘Why should Arlington hang Wharton by the neck at the Vintners’ Hall? Why should he drown one of your friends in a barrel of wine and weight another to the bottom of the Thames?’

‘To implicate Henry Burke,’ War answered, though with less certainty than before. ‘Burke complained to him about the way we cheated him and so presented himself as an easy scapegoat.’

‘I don’t think so.’ I shook my head, doubtful.

‘I don’t say he did it himself,’ said War. ‘He can order whosoever he chooses to do the deed.’

‘Who do you say he chose then?’

‘We thought it might be you.’ He laughed, unkindly. ‘Then we looked for another, but …’ He tapped the sword upon the floor.

‘You are not sure,’ I realised. ‘You asked us what we discovered of Perkins, the ranting cleric. You suspect he may be the killer.’

‘It is possible,’ War conceded. ‘The Bishop of London has the King’s ear these days. Some of the families of those we killed made discreet protest to the church. Perkins played the role of advocate. He sent Wharton letters, threatening retribution.’

‘What did Wharton think of that?’

War’s head jerked like he saw something, eyes staring out into the dark. ‘He laughed at him,’ he whispered. ‘So long as he had Chelwood’s support, he feared no one.’

He knew less than we did, I realised with heavy heart. ‘I cannot see Perkins setting men’s heads on fire and stuffing them into barrels.’

‘Wine is wicked, the King is wicked, women are wicked, all the children of men are wicked, and such are all their wicked works; and there is no truth in them; in their unrighteousness also they shall perish,’ War recited. ‘If you researched Perkins well you would know it is one of his favourite proclamations.’

‘The clergy are well practised at the art of inquisition,’ I said. ‘Methods they may stand behind and justify. What cleric would go to the extraordinary lengths that we have seen, actions that would see him condemned if discovered?’ It was nonsense. ‘And there is little that is godly in implicating an innocent man.’

‘Then tell me what else you know,’ War’s voice grated. ‘Afore I slice open your chest.’

‘The killer sought to implicate poor Henry Burke.’ I edged away, ready to run if he lost his temper. ‘It was Forman and Withypoll who locked him up at Ludgate with plague victims.’

‘Forman and Withypoll work for Lord Chelwood,’ War answered confidently. ‘They would see Burke die only because you interfered with their plan to hide him away.’

My throat constricted as I imagined what Burke was doing at that moment. ‘How do you know Chelwood didn’t kill Wharton?’ I asked. ‘The King sent Chelwood away. So he could no longer control events. Seems to me he is as likely a candidate as Arlington.’

‘That is the thought you spoke of?’ War jeered.

A light breeze blew across the graveyard, rustling the leaves of the oak above our heads.

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I told you we found Wharton’s brother at Bedlam.’

‘So you did,’ he grunted. ‘Pestilence went yesterday. He will tell me if it be true.’

‘No he won’t,’ I retorted. ‘We found him dead this morning. You didn’t follow us to Bedlam, evidently.’

War grabbed my neck with one huge hand. ‘Dead?’

I said nothing, determined to stay quiet until he released me. He stared into my eyes like he searched for something, afore pushing me away.

‘Someone cut his throat,’ I said, rubbing mine. ‘We found him in Franklin’s cell.’

‘Who is Franklin?’

‘The brother,’ I said. ‘As I told you before.’

War stared into the darkness.

‘Except I don’t think it was his brother.’

War’s head jerked towards me. ‘What do you say?’

‘I wonder if Wharton is truly dead.’ I spoke the thought aloud for the first time. ‘Or has he been hiding at Bedlam in the place of his brother?’

‘Madness!’ War stuttered, white-faced.

The gate swung open again, thirty paces back the way we came, too purposeful to be wind.

War pushed his sword deep between my ribs, breaking the skin. ‘Friends of yours?’

Shadows emerged into the faint moonlight, two of them. ‘Not mine,’ I whispered. ‘Yours neither, I’ll wager. Methinks Forman and Withypoll.’

War inspected the wall behind us, twelve feet high, too smooth to scale. ‘Good fortune, Lytle.’ He patted me upon the arm and ran off deeper into the churchyard. I thought to call
after him, but feared attracting attention. There was no other gate out, nor wall to climb.

He ran without care, feet crunching across gravel and through undergrowth like a loose horse. I heard voices to my right, sharp and urgent, then another set of feet running, but only one. That meant one remained, guarding the only passage out. I sat still and listened hard. More voices, a low voice and a higher voice, then the sound of a man groaning.

I stood up and trod carefully towards the trunk of the giant oak. The gnarled bark offered a multitude of handholds amongst its pits and ridges, easy climbing as I remembered from childhood. I pulled myself up to the lowest branch without problem. The next branch above me stretched out from tree to the wall, then out and over Foster Lane. Twelve feet was a high drop to the street below, but if I managed it twenty years ago I could manage it now. I hoisted myself up to the thicker bough and straddled it, then shuffled along, holding tight with my thighs. Halfway across, the branch jerked and cracked. I had put on weight this last twenty years. My trousers caught and tore.

‘Harry Lytle,’ a low voice called out from below. ‘Climbing a tree.’

I almost toppled off. Withypoll stared up from below. He jumped and tapped his sword against the sole of my foot.

‘Will you come down or shall I come up?’

Something snapped and again I nearly toppled, but the end of the branch fell to rest against the top of the wall. I scraped along, yanking my leg forward and tearing the cloth further. The gap between me and the wall stretched no thicker than a man’s upper arm. I leant forward quickly, reaching for the brick, just clinging to it. I pushed onto my lower arms in an
attempt to take my weight off the branch and pulled myself forwards. A short sharp piece of wood cut through the trouser into my thigh.

Withypoll disappeared. I heard him run back towards the gate. The wall was six inches thick, enough to balance on while I swung my legs down the other side. I turned and lowered myself, face to stone, sliding down, shirt riding up about the top of my naked stomach, grinding against the rough brick. I swung back and dropped the last three feet, twisting my knee on hitting the ground. I hobbled towards Cheapside, knee throbbing, stomach and leg bleeding, and flung myself behind the cross at St Nicholas Le Quern.

Withypoll burst forth, looking left and right in frantic search. I pushed deep into the shadows, blood pounding in my temples. He did a little jig, feet uncertain which way they wished to carry him, then kicked the cobbles in furious temper. Forman emerged beside him, laid a hand upon his shoulder and stared out with him into the night. For a terrifying second I thought he saw me, but neither moved. Forman said something, and they disappeared back into the churchyard.

I breathed a sigh of relief and contemplated running for home, but I wanted to know what happened to War. Soon Forman came out again, this time on his own. He stood as if waiting.

A cart rattled into view at the far end of Foster Lane, from direction of Cripplegate. Forman whistled between his fingers and beckoned with one hand. The cart trundled up the street, a plague cart it looked like. Forman signalled towards the gate and Withypoll emerged, pulling War by the armpits. Then the two of them picked him up and threw him onto the cart.

Forman spoke to the driver and money exchanged hands.
Then the cart continued on towards me. A pair of legs dangled from the back of the wagon, short and thin, swinging freely as the cart bumped over the cobbles, a child’s legs. As the cart turned east onto Cheapside I saw the pile of bodies, War lain spreadeagled on top. Then the cart turned left up Greatwood Street, on its way back to Cripplegate and the pit beyond.