Hearts of Darkness (14 page)

‘See,’ Dowling hissed, grabbing again at my sleeve. I wrenched his hand free and bent round to peer past his great arse.

It was the same fellow we saw earlier in the day. A skinny man with naked bony head, attempting to hide himself in the shadows of the trees as he sidled about the edge of the clearing. He carried a sword in his left hand, held afore him as if he expected to be ambushed at any moment.

‘You think Elks and his dogs again?’ I whispered.

‘I doubt it,’ Dowling answered. ‘Six of them patrol the village, and all must sleep sometime. So I suspect no more than three of them come out at night, determined to guard the main roads in and out.’

The thin man stopped and cocked his head, no more than twenty paces away. Dowling crouched, muscles taut. He clearly intended to throw himself upon the poor unfortunate, sword or no sword. His only chance was to run for it, for Dowling was slow, yet he kept advancing. Then he made a dash across the blue terrain, towards the front door of the house and out of our view.

Dowling stepped about the side of the house and I followed, scanning the ground as we tiptoed. A small pile of logs sat at the front of the cottage, left over from winter. Dowling lifted two logs from the heap, handing one to me. A weapon.

The front door stood ajar. Inside I heard shuffling, the sound of our pursuer stumbling in the dark. Dowling put a finger to his lip, and
slipped inside. I followed, darting quickly to my right into the depths of the deepest shadow. A floorboard creaked. Then a much quieter sound; the deft step of a lighter man. Dowling’s head appeared in the moonlight shining through the window and I saw a flash of silver. I leapt forward and aimed my log at a black shadow to my left. A man shouted and so I hit again at the same space. Something hit the floor with a heavy thud.

‘Why did you do that?’ Dowling exclaimed, furious.

‘You have the ears of an elephant,’ I replied, ‘but you walk like one too. He would have run you through before you blinked.’

‘Nonsense.’ He gripped the man’s shirt and dragged him out into the moonlight, practically choking the fellow.

I picked up the fallen sword then knelt next to the intruder. ‘You are old and heavy, Dowling, which is why he heard you and didn’t hear me.’

‘It was the noise you made attracted him to the door,’ Dowling protested.

‘Look in a mirror,’ I snapped. ‘You are what you see.’

I had hit the man just above the ear, and on the back of the head. Both wounds bled freely, but he was still conscious, though pained. He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes.

‘Who are you?’ I demanded.

‘Who are you?’ he slurred, dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

He was quite young, about the same age as me. A layer of black stubble carpeted his head. His eyes were clear and blue, his demeanour sharp and determined.

‘I asked you first,’ I replied, ‘and if you don’t answer, then Dowling will rip your arms off.’

‘Galileo,’ he said, which was obviously a lie.

Dowling looked suitably annoyed, but the young man eyed him dispassionately, seemingly unafraid.

I fingered his fine-cut shirt. The look in his eye was that of a seasoned campaigner, one experienced in the ways of the court. ‘You are not of this village,’ I said. ‘So I wonder how you walk so freely? Elks’ men trailed you with their dogs earlier. How did they not find you?’

‘I walked up the stream,’ he replied, disdainfully. ‘Dogs have sharp noses, but these villagers have dull brains.’

He levered himself onto his elbows and looked about, assessing the situation calmly, despite the blood dripping down his cheek. ‘Why did you hit me twice?’ he complained, wiping at the blood with his palm.

‘You were about to stab Davy in the stomach,’ I replied. ‘Of course I hit you twice. You are lucky to be alive.’

‘Hah!’ he exclaimed, sitting up straight. ‘So you say.’

He clambered to his feet, much to my alarm. I jumped up before him and held the sword towards his chest.

He held up a hand before turning back into the cottage. ‘I am looking for a cloth, to hold to my skull where you hit me with that log.’

‘Marshall Howe has been here,’ he remarked, picking his way carefully through the debris. He stopped, attracted by the edge of a tablecloth. ‘Someone’s finest,’ he said, jerking it clear of the table that lay atop of it.

‘Do you work for Lord Arlington?’ I asked, for he had the arrogance of another Withypoll.

‘Not I,’ he replied. ‘Nor you, judging by your appearance. Yet if you speak of him you must have some connection with the court.’ He
wiped at his head. ‘For my part I intend to tell you nothing.’

I handed the sword to Dowling. ‘Tell us at least how you walk so freely.’

‘I didn’t tell them I arrived.’ He shrugged. ‘You two wandered into the middle of the village and stood waiting for them to find you.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘Simple fellows, I told myself, but I would understand your intentions.’

‘Not so simple we didn’t spot you following us this morning,’ I pointed out. ‘And relieve you of your sword tonight.’

‘Aye,’ he grimaced. ‘I am simpler than you.’

‘If you have no connection with Elks then we have nothing to hide,’ Dowling growled, ‘and since we are so simple, why would you seek to hide anything from us?’

‘A good point,’ Galileo said. ‘And I am feeling dizzy. Would that Howe might leave furniture to sit on.’

‘We are here to find James Josselin,’ Dowling said. ‘I think you are too.’

‘True enough,’ he replied. ‘Though I have been unable to find him. This was a likely place to look.’ He nodded, impressed. ‘Though not the right place. Why did you come here?’

‘If you have travelled the whole journey as cautiously as you entered Shyam, then you have not spoken to the same folks we have,’ Dowling replied. ‘We are confident we know where he stays.’

‘He doesn’t stay here.’ Galileo waved a hand at the silent shadows. ‘So why come all the way out here in the middle of the night?’

‘No more questions,’ Dowling said. ‘Not until you tell us something of yourself.’

Galileo shrugged. The blood on his head formed a thick clot. ‘Since you have been so open with me I will be open with you. Tell it
to Arlington, though, or indeed any other, then you will be killed. Not by me, you understand. By Arlington.’

‘Go on,’ Dowling urged.

Galileo dabbed at his head one last time before throwing the cloth to the floor. ‘Josselin didn’t kill the Earl of Berkshire. They were best friends.’

I frowned. ‘We know that already. Josselin’s mother told us.’

‘They were both part of the mission that went to Holland to negotiate a peace,’ said Galileo.

‘I didn’t know there was a peace process,’ I exclaimed. ‘Arlington told us Josselin sabotaged any chance of peace.’

‘The peace mission was not public knowledge,’ said Galileo. ‘Nor was Arlington sincere in pushing for it. His fondest wish was that the House of Orange would rise up and depose De Witt, and make peace with England on our terms.’

It seemed complicated to me.

‘And yes,’ he jabbed a finger at my chest, ‘Arlington is telling everyone that Josselin sabotaged the peace process, which makes no sense, for Josselin was personally committed to it, believed in the coming together of two Protestant nations. Which is why I must find Josselin, to discover the truth of it, to know what he knows.’

‘And you work for the Earl of Clarendon,’ I surmised, my own head as thick as his.

He nodded.

‘Then we are on the same side,’ I worked out. ‘All of us working for the King.’

He cast upon me a withering glance. ‘No man is so simple as that.’

‘No, indeed,’ I winced. As well the darkness hid my red face. ‘Whether we be on the same side or not, we are as keen as you to
discover the truth. Though no one seems to know Josselin is here, we found his boots and coat in a chest in Elks’ house.’

Galileo stood away from the wall. ‘Elks has him imprisoned, and you came here because this place is remote.’

‘Aye.’ Dowling agreed. ‘And there cannot be many cottages so remote, where the occupants are dead.’

There didn’t need to be many if it took us all night to visit every one. Yet Galileo seemed impressed. ‘Then we shall find him soon,’ he declared, resolute. ‘Now, shall we return to Shyam or do you have more houses to visit tonight?’

He walked the fastest of the three of us, pausing impatiently when he approached the pond. He squinted as if blinded, the purple lump upon the side of his head swollen to the size of a tennis ball.

‘I will meet you at the cottage where you are staying, sometime in the morning.’ He touched the bump gingerly. ‘Don’t follow me.’ With which he slipped into the undergrowth and was gone.

‘He seems like a worthy fellow beneath it all,’ I reflected.

‘Bright-eyed and full of intent,’ Dowling replied. ‘That doesn’t make him a worthy fellow.’

‘Aye, then.’ I was too tired to debate the matter further. ‘I am glad he is gone, though, for we have work to do.’

The water on the pond lay flat, polished black and blue beneath the moonlight, not a ripple upon its surface. The gibbets on their posts stood black against the pale night sky. In the cage ahead I made out five bodies. Two sat huddled, moving occasionally, the other three lay motionless next to each other, in a row. A goatsucker sang loud from somewhere to our right, a strange trilling sound, like a giant grasshopper. Some called it the corpse bird.

I sighed and stared out upon the quiet scene afore me. We watched from beneath a tall hedge that marked the boundary with the field behind. It was my idea to wait here for Elks. I had no desire to spend another day in this infected hole and was determined to leave as soon as we were able, no matter Dowling’s objections. Elks was at home or at the barricades tonight, which meant that sometime around dawn
he would likely arrive or leave. If we could establish the direction of his coming or going then it would greatly help our search. The darkness was a mercy, a comforting blanket beneath which to hide. Then Dowling began to snore.

Rather than disturb him I took off my jacket and laid it over his face. The chill helped me stay awake. I wearied of sneaking about this village. I wearied of the fear that suffocated my heart and froze my wits. I struggled to dismiss the presence of Death from my thoughts, but it was impossible.

I shivered. What I wouldn’t pay now to walk into the Mermaid and sit myself by the fireplace with a cup of wine and a plate of oysters. I thought again of Jane and her strange behaviour. I recalled the softness of her skin, wide green eyes and open face, glimpsed only for a moment in Cocksmouth. After we recovered from the discharging of our carnal lusts, she regarded me with renewed ferocity, angrier than before. It was like I was the thief and she the victim, which seemed to me like the spider blaming the fly for giving it a stomach ache. But since we returned to London she was different, like she entertained the notion of a different way of being.

I was too cold to sleep. I marvelled at Dowling, lain upon his back, my coat upon his face, gently rumbling. He was not a fat man. To touch his body was like prodding a rock. What kept him warm? His faith, would be his reply. Thick hide and a fat head would be my guess.

First light crept over the horizon just as I thought I would freeze. New birds sang lustily, to warm themselves up, obscuring the jarring song of the goatsucker. At their cue the first strands of red crept above the horizon, slowly infiltrating the skies above us.

A scream rent the air, shrill and piercing. Dowling made a sequence of foul noises like he was kissing himself. I tugged the jacket from his face and prodded him in the ribs. He opened his eyes and stared about him, disoriented. I wriggled forwards, deeper into the hedge, to seek from where the noise came. Two men in the cage climbed to their feet, stood with their hands clutching the bars, staring towards the church.

A slight figure appeared at the far side of the pond, running from the canopied track that led east, naked body white against the grey surroundings. She ran with arms held out straight as if she sought to rid herself of her own hands. When she saw the gibbets she stopped, staring with wild eyes, body jerking in rhythm with her staccato cries. Then she screamed again and leapt into the pond.

Two figures ran out of the woods behind her, Elks and the bald man we met earlier that day. They stopped at the edge of the pond where the woman stood up to her waist splashing water upon her chest, face contorted in agonised grimace. A third figure lumbered slow behind, short stumpy legs struggling beneath a hulking torso, rope curled about his shoulder. The giant Marshall Howe, wearing but a thin shirt with sleeves rolled up as far as they would go. He reminded me of Dowling.

Dowling fidgeted. ‘If they don’t pull her out soon she’ll die of cold.’

I had seen the symptoms too many times before. ‘She will die of plague before she dies of cold.’

Elks laid a hand upon the bald man’s shoulder before turning to Marshall Howe. He talked quickly while Howe listened, head bowed. Then the giant nodded and let the rope from his shoulder fall to the floor. He tied one end into a noose then waded out into the
water behind the woman. He paused a moment before lowering the rope over her head and jerking it tight. She fell backwards, clutching at her throat. Howe pushed her head down into the pond while she kicked and splashed. When the thrashing ceased, Howe stood up straight and attempted to pull her onto the bank. He reached halfway, breathing heavily, before turning for help. The bald man stepped gingerly into the water to join him, taking a piece of rope from Howe’s huge hands. They then pulled together, tugging hard, digging their heels into the soft mud. At last they succeeded, jerking the corpse from the bottom of the pond where it must have got stuck, depositing it onto the grass.

The whole world fell silent, holding its breath in disbelief. I blinked and waited for the corpse to move. Dowling stared, white-faced, jaw loose. What could we have done to prevent it? It happened too quick. My heart was beating so hard it would explode.

Howe picked up the rope from where he dropped it and pulled her dead body along the grass towards the forest. Elks pushed a lock of lank hair behind his ear, touched the bald man on the shoulder, and headed after Howe. The bald man headed off in the opposite direction towards Fiddler’s Bridge. The sky seemed to sigh, casting upon us another degree of light. We witnessed a savage murder, no less, whatever their casual demeanour.

Dowling clambered to his feet. ‘We follow.’

I took his lead, head heavy with lack of sleep and numbed shock. I had no desire to follow Elks lest it was to find out where he lived, but could find no words to debate the case.

We paused at the stile afore hurrying about the perimeter of the pond. Two clerics stood at the bars of the cage, their heaving sobs betraying the shattered ruins of their faith. Dowling didn’t spare them
even a glance, marching forward with grim determination.

Howe and Elks were easy to follow, the steady slithering of the corpse upon the forest floor marking their journey. We followed at a distance, sticking to the early morning shadow at the side of the path. Daylight stabbed through the treetops as if searching for the perpetrators of the terrible sin.

Halfway to Buxton’s house the noise stopped. Elks said something to Howe afore disappearing into the trees to our left and Howe resumed his steady trudge up the main track. We ran to the point where Elks departed, as fast as we could without making a noise, not daring to attract Howe’s attentions. I put my fingers in my ears, unable to bear the sound of the woman’s feet bumping off tree roots and broken branches.

At last we reached the bend. The path to our left wound down through thick undergrowth like a ribbon, between beech tree and birch, into a gloomy basin where the young, morning light struggled to penetrate. We stepped down the hill as fast as we could, wary now we had no sense where Elks might be. A branch hit me hard across the forehead.

Dowling walked faster, nose thrust forward like a sniffing dog. He pointed out a narrow opening in the undergrowth I would scarce have noticed, a narrow track sheltered by giant fern. ‘He turned off again here,’ he whispered.

‘How do you know?’ I asked.

‘He is headed towards Isaak Wilson’s house,’ Dowling replied. ‘The house sits another hundred paces down this path, and Wilson died twelve months ago.’

‘The plague found him here?’

‘Don’t talk of the plague,’ Dowling snapped, voice tight.

My foot slipped upon the rolling earth and I nearly fell, grasping at Dowling to stop myself falling.

‘You walk like an infant,’ Dowling growled, righting me roughly then letting me go. ‘Be mindful, else he will hear you.’

I clenched my jaw and concentrated on the ground beneath my feet, paying attention to the roots protruding from the dirt. At last the ground flattened. We came to the edge of a small clearing, in the middle of which stood another stone house and two wooden outhouses. Elks was gone, but light shone from the main window.

‘Isaak Wilson’s house,’ Dowling muttered. ‘With someone else’s candle in the window.’

We burrowed into the thick undergrowth, easing our way through the clutching bramble. Elks had not had the dog with him, I realised, heart suddenly cold. Was the dog here? It couldn’t be; why would he have left it at the house? He must have been on his way home when he came across the affected woman. The dog would be at the barricades with the other wardens. I prayed it was so and made extra effort to tread silently.

We found a trunk so thick we could both lean against it. The candle danced, flickered and eventually died. Colours came to life as the sun climbed high, and the earth warmed up. I fell asleep, at last, head rested against Dowling’s heavy shoulder.

I woke alone, lain upon my side, hungry. Sitting bolt upright I looked for Dowling, finding only flattened ground, cold to the touch. Staggering to my feet I saw the house through the hedge. To my left now led a long trail of flattened gorse, lined on either side by low bushes, branches broken off and snapped by a beast the size of a great bull. I followed the trail of debris and found Dowling stood next to a
tree, peering towards the back of the house.

‘Is he in there?’ I whispered, stretching my stiff limbs.

‘Aye,’ said Dowling. ‘He stirred himself a few minutes ago. I reckon he’s about to leave.’

‘What else have you found?’

Dowling rubbed his neck. ‘One of the outhouses is derelict, the other is secured with a new lock.’ He turned. ‘Move. Back to where we were. Quickly.’ He pushed me up the path, towards the giant tree trunk.

The door opened and Elks strode forth, swinging a club like he expected to use it, brown hair hanging heavy about his ears, long face bereft of mercy. He looked fresh and well rested, full of vigorous intent. I tucked myself deeper into the cover as he strode past, up the slope and away into the woods. Once he was gone I shuffled to my feet and forced myself to stand straight.

‘He won’t be gone long,’ I predicted. ‘He’ll go straight to Buxton’s house to check on us. When he finds us gone he’ll track us down with his dogs.’

‘If Josselin is here, then he is in the outhouse,’ said Dowling. He led the way to a low wooden building without windows, wide heavy door bolted from the outside.

‘Built strong,’ I remarked, rubbing my hand against the rough planks.

‘Aye,’ Dowling agreed, ‘but a long time ago.’ He pulled at the padlock, a squat heavy beast with a flap over the keyhole. ‘The lock is strong, but not the hinges.’

He let the lock drop against the door and pointed to the top hinge, a simple dovetail with six screws, all rusted. The wood was brittle and dry. ‘We just need a lever.’

He strode across the clearing to the house. No lock to contend with here, for the door was open. The air was musty, the light poor. A heavy table occupied the middle of the room, with four chairs, three of which sat flush against the side of it. Of more interest were the two loaves of bread and a plate of dried beef.

I poked my head into the back room while chewing. Elks wasn’t a clean man. A chamber pot stood full in the middle of the floor and the bed stank most foul.

Dowling turned from the unlit fireplace with a poker in his hand. ‘Here.’

‘What will we find?’ I wondered aloud, approaching the outhouse once more.

‘There is little point in guessing.’ Dowling sighed. ‘Though if Wilson died without releasing his animals, we should be able to smell it from Shyam. I reckon this is Elks’ work.’

He stabbed at the wood about the top hinge with the end of the poker. I prayed it wouldn’t take long, still fearful of Elks and his dogs. Nor did it, for Dowling worked in a mad frenzy, chopping at a crack in the door with the blunt iron bar until it widened enough for him to jam the poker in and tear the wood apart. Once the top hinge was loose, he prised the door far enough away from the jamb to grip it in his hands. He pulled with all his weight, grunting red-faced. When the bottom hinge gave way with a shriek, we were through, into another pocket of Hell.

The room was bare, floor strewn with rotting straw, tiny shards of light providing scant illumination from between the weathered planks. At the end of the room squatted a man, chained to a low iron bar running the width of the outhouse, in front of two long troughs.

‘Mind the hole,’ he grinned, wrists manacled to his waist, nodding to our right. ‘That is to be my grave.’

Someone had dug a large hole, six feet long and a yard across.

He leant forwards, legs crossed, naked body filthy, the tip of his yard resting limp against the straw. A chain connected the iron band at his waist to a four-foot iron bar. The stench of piss and faeces soaked the air. He stared with bright eyes, mouth fixed in a broad smile, sinister and humourless. Long dark hair hung wet about his shoulders and plastered his forehead, yet the eyes burnt.

I took care not to approach closer than the length of the chain. ‘Your grave, you say?’

‘Aye,’ he replied, leery. ‘Elks dug it for me. He thinks the sight of it will drive me mad.’ He snorted. ‘I enjoyed watching him dig it. The ground is hard.’

‘You are James Josselin?’ I surmised.

He nodded. ‘And you are spies.’

Unfolded he would stand uncommonly tall, I reckoned, more than six feet. Or perhaps he just seemed that way because he was so awfully thin. His ribs stood out like the claws of a demon. I looked about for signs of food and water, but found none.

‘When did you last eat?’ I asked.

‘A week ago,’ Josselin replied. ‘The devil doesn’t feed me. I suck straw for water.’ I felt my guts churn, for the straw was yellow and soft, weeks old and creeping with insects.

The flesh about his eyes and cheeks was purple and blue. A long ugly welt wound its way from below his ribcage to beneath his arm. Someone had kicked him, else beaten him with a stick. He eyed Dowling’s poker like it was an old adversary.