Hearts of Darkness (15 page)

‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.

‘Since I came,’ Josselin replied. ‘Elks was first to meet me. My bad luck.’ He stared at me once more, small brown eyes unmoving, lips drawn back to reveal bright white teeth. The flesh about his wrists was red and festering and he smelt like he was rotting. This, then, was the ‘great man’.

I pulled from my pocket a hunk of bread I was saving for later. He took it with grace and chewed, unhurried. He squinted. ‘Methinks you came to fetch me back to London, but you cannot take me back.’ He held up his chained wrists. ‘Less you have the key.’ He laughed, a sad abrasive noise tinged with lunacy. ‘Did Arlington send you here, or was it Clarendon?’

I tried not to gaze upon his genitals.

‘Why say you Arlington or Clarendon?’ Dowling demanded, wandering dangerously close.

Josselin eyed Dowling out the corner of his eye. ‘Arlington says I betrayed England to the Dutch. Clarendon is the most determined to make peace.’

‘We work for Arlington,’ I said. ‘Though not willingly. He says you killed your best friend.’

Josselin breathed slow and steady through his nose, his face turning a violent shade of crimson. He clambered painfully to his feet and stood erect, bashed and bruised, covered in a thick layer of dirt and sweat. I edged backwards. Though his arms were chained to his waist, still I feared the look in his eyes. I didn’t trust him not to bite me.

He shuffled forwards, as far as the chains would allow and jerked his wrists away from his iron girdle, succeeding only in making them bleed. ‘I am not a traitor nor a murderer.’ He let his head roll back and stared at the ceiling, stood silent, trembling.

‘We found your book,’ I said nervously. ‘On the way to Shyam.’

‘My book?’ He lowered his chin and blinked. ‘You have my book?’

‘I do,’ I remembered, digging into the folds of my jacket.

‘Keep it,’ he snapped. ‘Charlatan words writ by devious agents. Believe nothing you read.’

‘You circled passages pertaining to the Dutch.’

‘The book is written by a charlatan. It tells of the demise of the Dutch forces.’ He stepped towards me, restrained only by the chain. ‘Ask yourself why the Dutch must fall.’

‘We are at war,’ I replied, bewildered. ‘Of course the Dutch must fall.’

Josselin bared his teeth. ‘And why did Charles have to die?’

I blinked ‘Berkshire? I don’t know why he had to die. Arlington said you killed him.’

‘My best friend,’ he said, clenching his fists. ‘Why did I kill my best friend?’

‘Do you know who did?’ I asked, nervous.

‘Aye, I know,’ he replied. ‘At least I know who ordered it.’ He clamped his mouth closed and glared.

Dowling took another step closer. ‘Everyone has told us what you did in Colchester when you were a child,’ he said.

I cursed him silently for distracting Josselin. I wanted to know who killed Berkshire, not listen to old stories, embellished and
reembellished
with the passing of two decades.

Josselin bowed his head. ‘Josselin the hero,’ he said. ‘Who tried to save Colchester from the barbaric hordes of General Fairfax.’ He nodded to himself. ‘You know Fairfax still lives? Black Tom. Forgiven all his trespasses because he helped Monck bring the King out of exile.’ He clenched his fists again and grimaced, a thick blood vessel
standing prominent upon his brow. ‘My mother was one of the five hundred brave women that pleaded for food, once the soap and candles ran out,’ he said. ‘They stripped her of her clothes like the other four hundred and ninety-nine. Then they chased her about the fields on horseback until at last they allowed them to return inside the town walls. Most of them, anyway.’

‘They say you didn’t talk even when they tortured you.’

Josselin sucked the air in through his teeth then closed his eyes. ‘They said they would hang me unless I told them the message I carried and who it was for.’

‘You were just a boy,’ I exclaimed. ‘Any boy would have confessed it, any man would have confessed it. They were soldiers that tortured you.’

‘I know who they were,’ Josselin murmured, eyes tight closed. ‘And I saw what they did. I would have told them the message the moment they asked, but I forgot it.’ His eyes were moist. ‘Each time they held a match to my finger I begged them to stop, but they would not.’

I looked at his hands. The skin on his fingertips was ridged and rutted, like the landlady said.

‘You are a hero to these people,’ I said. ‘Every man in Essex talks of you with fondness.’

‘I don’t know these people,’ Josselin retorted. ‘I was a child. I left when I was a young man. They say I am a hero because I wouldn’t speak, yet I knew not what to say. They are not interested in the truth. Not now, not then.’

‘Then why did you come here?’

‘To escape Arlington,’ he replied. ‘I knew he wouldn’t follow, not into Shyam.’

Now he stood naked in a cowshed wrapped in chains, deep in the heart of plague country.

‘Who killed Berkshire?’ I asked.

A dog barked, close by. I turned to Dowling. ‘Elks!’

Josselin again strained to pull his wrists away from the chain that bound them to his waist, roaring with frustration and pain. The iron cut into his flesh, releasing a fresh tide of blood and pus to pour over the palms of his hands.

‘Come!’ I urged Dowling. ‘It’s our scent they are following.’

‘We cannot leave him here,’ Dowling protested.

‘We’ll come back,’ I hissed. I raced towards the forest, then stopped and cut back, running across the track that led from the village, diving into a low cluster of bracken.

‘What are you doing?’ Dowling demanded, panting, towering above me. ‘You think the dogs won’t find you?’

‘Lie down!’ I croaked, hoarse, burying my head. The barking was close now.

He lowered himself gracelessly to the ground, grumbling.

‘We won’t escape the dogs,’ I whispered. ‘There is no point in running. I want to see what Elks does.’

Dowling frowned and shook his head as the first of our pursuers burst into the clearing. It was Elks, black dog straining at its leash before him. He flicked at his lank hair with one hand, glowering at the broken outhouse door. He scanned the clearing quickly afore hurrying to the barn, allowing his dog to pull him forwards. Staring into the black void, he jerked back the leash, refusing the hound liberty to prowl further. Then the dog found our new scent and tried to pull away again, but Elks held his ground. Four more men arrived, three dogs between them, yapping loud in their desire
to be let loose, strangulated barking peppered with intermittent squeals.

‘That way,’ Elks pointed away from the barn. ‘The scent goes that way.’

I leapt up. ‘No need!’ I shouted, lifting my hands above my head. ‘We are here.’

Dowling scrambled to his feet and joined me, pained expression on his face showing he doubted my sanity.

Elks scowled, face scarlet, with the exertion of running ahead, I wagered. What had he thought, I wondered, as the dogs led him closer and closer to Wilson’s house? I heard anger in his snarl and saw the fear in his eyes.

‘James Josselin is in that outhouse,’ I cried. ‘We weren’t trying to escape. We came to Shyam to find James Josselin and we found him in that barn.’

The bald man laughed. ‘James Josselin hiding in Shyam,’ he snorted. Yet he let his hound pull him towards the broken door.

‘Keep out of there,’ Elks warned, edging sideways. ‘Take these two to the cage and we will deal with them later.’

‘I tell you Josselin is inside the barn,’ I said again. ‘Chained and manacled. Elks has held him there this last week, planning to bury him alive. There is a grave there. Just look.’

The bald man stepped about Elks, assessing him warily as he did so. I stepped sideways, hands still raised, so I could see inside the barn. Josselin stood stiff, watching the bald man approach with imperious disdain.

‘This cannot be James Josselin,’ the bald man exclaimed, regarding Josselin’s filthy naked body with disgust. ‘This is some lunatic.’

‘If I wasn’t chained I would bite off your face,’ Josselin growled,
eyes blazing. Blood covered his shoulders, thick and sticky. ‘You are John Smythe and I will not forget it.’

The bald man took a quick step backwards, like he trod on a snake.

‘Enough!’ Elks roared. ‘This man is indeed a lunatic. I caught him trying to enter the village last night and imprisoned him. He had no clothes when I discovered him.’

‘You didn’t tell us,’ Smythe replied.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Nor did he tell you he has James Josselin’s clothes hidden in a chest in his house.’

Elks turned to me furious, then threw the leash from his hand. The dog stood motionless for a moment, shoulders hunched, head lowered, teeth bared. It crept forward, eyeing first Dowling then me. Then it sprang at Dowling. Dowling threw up an arm to protect himself and the dog sunk its teeth into his flesh. He opened his mouth but didn’t scream, just grabbed at the dog’s nose with his free hand. I grabbed the dog’s shoulders but it wouldn’t move, hard muscle oblivious to my feeble pawings.

‘Release your dogs,’ Elks shouted.

I turned to see the ginger-haired man pull in his hound and reach for its collar, preparing to set it upon me. I froze, torn between the sound of frenzied snarling behind and the sight of two furious beasts, slavering for my blood.

‘No,’ called Smythe. ‘Hold them.’ He glowered at Elks. ‘First we find out what this is all about.’

‘Call the dog off!’ I yelled at Smythe. ‘Call it off now!’

The bald man whistled, sharp. The hound released its grip immediately and trotted away, head bowed, tail between its legs. The ginger-haired man grabbed at its collar.

Black holes peppered Dowling’s arm, from which leaked long
scarlet streams. He stared at the mess, pale-faced, and cradled it against his chest.

Elks pulled the club from his belt and strode into the barn. He drew back his arm and aimed a mighty blow at Josselin’s skull. Josselin turned and took the force of it across his spine, falling to the ground with a groan.

‘Put down the club, Thomas,’ Smythe commanded.

Elks turned, fury seething from every pore of his skin. ‘What did you say to me?’

Smythe stood his ground. ‘How long have you held him here, Thomas?’ he asked, quiet.

‘A week,’ I replied, when Elks did not.

‘A week,’ Smythe repeated. ‘And in that time more than forty people have died.’

Elks looked ready to erupt, red face now white. ‘What are you saying, Smythe?’ he hissed.

‘I’m saying that the Reverend needs to be told what you have done,’ Smythe replied. ‘You shall not kill James Josselin, for that would be the work of the Devil.’

‘The Devil!’ Elks exclaimed, swinging about to face Josselin again, who had somehow managed to regain his feet. ‘
Josselin
is the Devil, and I shall slay him!’ He marched forwards, club held high and swung again.

This time Josselin stepped neatly aside, evading the lunge, swivelling, and kicking at Elks with his right leg, catching him on the ribs. Elks tripped and fell to the ground. He rolled onto his back, dazed. Josselin leapt onto his chest, straddling him, placing the chain between his wrists across Elks’ throat.

‘So, Thomas,’ Josselin whispered. ‘My grave or yours?’

Elks tried to reach him with his club, but Josselin pinned his biceps with his knees, denying him leverage.

I waited for someone to intervene, but no one did. Josselin pulled the chain tighter and pushed harder. Elks struggled to breathe, face purple. Josselin watched him squirm, intent, breathing steady, tongue between his teeth.

‘Take the club,’ he whispered.

No one moved.

‘Someone take the club,’ he repeated.

Elks’ eyes protruded from his skull and he gritted his teeth. I stepped forwards and caught the club before it hit the ground.

Josselin sat up straight, relieving the pressure on Elks’ neck. Then he leant backwards to address the men behind, allowing his groin to slide forward onto Elks’ face. ‘Some clothes please, gentlemen,’ he requested. ‘I imagine Elks has the keys to my chains inside his coat.’

With a last wriggle on Elks’ mouth and nose, he stood up straight. ‘I shall need a wash, besides,’ he said. ‘I stink.’

Smythe found the keys in Elks’ pocket, releasing Josselin from the chains, using them to shackle Elks. Josselin inspected the sores upon his wrists and about his waist with detached curiosity afore turning his attention to Elks once more.

‘You are a bad man, Thomas,’ he said quietly.

Elks glared but did not reply.

He bowed to me and to Dowling. ‘To you two gentlemen I am in debt.’

He stuck out his chest and drew back his filthy, matted hair with both hands, oblivious to his nakedness. He watched Elks test his shackles, red-faced and rigid, before shaking a finger at a pile of old clothes the bald man offered him. ‘Upon reflection I think it best to
wash in the river while one of you fetch my clothes from the chest in Elks’ house.’

He turned away and strode most royally in the direction of the village, followed by a short procession, Elks at its tail, on his own leash now, walking with the dogs.

Dowling and I walked ten paces behind, my heart full of hope that we might walk straight out of Shyam and back to Colchester, there to find Withypoll died of plague.

The procession stopped at the river for Josselin to wash. He stepped into the water up to his groin and cleansed himself of filth, prising cakes of blood and straw from his arms with long fingernails, washing the grime from his face and tending to his wounds. When he plunged his hair into the slow-moving water, a brown stain formed, covering the surface of the stream. The wardens watched entranced as a handsome young man emerged from beneath the grime; white-skinned and angular. Red sores coated his legs and forearms.

Elks approached Smythe while all watched Josselin, transfixed. Elks whispered, hands held forward, but Smythe moved away without meeting his eye.

The ginger-haired man arrived, panting, with Josselin’s clothes, just as Josselin clambered onto the bank. Josselin pulled on his drawers as
if no one watched, then a flowing, silk shirt and blue, silk breeches. The sun reached halfway up the sky and the air was warm. Josselin handed his long black coat back to the ginger-haired man, who took it like his servant. With his long, dark hair pulled back off his face and tied behind his shoulders, Josselin resembled the King himself.

Smythe ducked his head as if tempted to bow. ‘Would you like something to eat?’

‘To drink.’ Josselin turned on his heel and headed up the track. ‘Wine, if you have it.’

Smythe exchanged glances with his companions and shrugged. ‘We have ale.’

‘Ale, then.’ Josselin waved an arm and lengthened his stride. ‘This cage.’ He turned to look at Smythe. ‘Is that where you will imprison Mr Elks?’

Elks glowered, stumbling when the ginger man shoved him.

‘He hasn’t eaten for a week and he asks for ale?’ I whispered at Dowling.

‘I fear for the health of any man that spends a week in the conditions we witnessed,’ Dowling replied. ‘Stay alert, Harry.’

Josselin stood with hands on hips, face contorted in ripe disgust as he surveyed the circle of iron gibbets, decomposing corpses grown another day more rotten. He turned to Smythe. ‘Who are all these people?’

‘The village swore an oath to stay and they tried to leave,’ Smythe replied, avoiding Josselin’s horrified stare. ‘The Reverend Mompesson commanded it, and Elks enforced it.’

‘We all enforced it,’ Elks interrupted, angry. ‘As God is your witness, you dare deny it?’

Smythe muttered and ducked his head.

Josselin caught sight of the cage at the edge of the pond. ‘Who are those wretches?’

‘Four clerics.’ Smythe traipsed in his wake, shoulders slumped. ‘They came in two days ago on donkeys. Said they would tend to our souls then return to Colchester. Thomas said we should lock them away as well.’

Elks snorted, as the rest of the group followed Josselin to the bars of the cage.

‘Good,’ exclaimed Josselin leaning forwards. ‘I’m glad you did, for these are not clerics.’

Smythe opened his mouth as if to say something, but settled instead for exchanging glances with his mystified colleagues.

I approached close enough to see the spark of excitement in Josselin’s eyes, the tip of his tongue dance quickly between his teeth. The two clerics that lived quaked beneath his gaze, sensing there was something wrong. They looked to me as if in search of explanation.

‘Godfrey Allen and John Ansty,’ Josselin declared triumphant. ‘The dead men are Greenleafe and Meshman. Spies. If it were up to me I would put them to death.’ He turned away. ‘Where’s that ale?’

Smythe wiped his palms on his arse. ‘At my house,’ he replied, attempting to smile. ‘Over the bridge.’

‘Away, then!’ Josselin declared, pointing at the sky. His dark eyes settled on me. ‘Come, Arlington’s men. You I trust. Come with me.’

The clerics gazed at me with pleading eyes, hands clasping the bars. ‘What does he say?’ one of them whispered. ‘I have never heard those names before. We are clerics from Colchester. Ask Mayor Flanner.’

I raised my head and saw Marshall Howe stood behind the cage, glowering with murderous intent. My throat constricted and I turned quickly to Josselin. ‘You are sure they are spies?’

He rattled the tip of his boot against the bars. ‘Of course. Arlington’s scum. Murderers and thieves.’

The two clerics shook their heads silently, clasping their hands and biting their lips.

‘Marshall Howe.’ Josselin raised his chin. ‘Stop staring at my good friends. Lock Elks in the cage and take down all these bodies. Take them to the church.’

Howe’s expression didn’t change, nor did he move a muscle of his body.

‘Don’t worry about Mompesson,’ Josselin mouthed the words with exaggerated care. ‘I will go and speak with him after I have visited Smythe at his humble abode.’ He nodded his head and showed his teeth. ‘Come, Arlington’s men.’

I chased after him. ‘What will you do to the clerics?’

‘I have no idea,’ Josselin replied, looking over his shoulder. ‘I cannot release them, for those two dead men are plagued. We should leave them there for forty days, I think.’

Dowling scowled and scratched at his head, unable to tell if Josselin was serious and reluctant to ask. Smythe ran ahead, while Elks protested loudly behind us, Howe bundling him into the cage with the clerics.

A pale face peeked out from the window of a small cottage just the other side of Fiddler’s Bridge, a narrow walkway of wooden planks bound together with twine. A young woman with dark hair, wide-eyed and hesitant. She disappeared once she set eyes on Josselin.

Smythe emerged carrying a large stone flagon and three cups. He offered the cups to Josselin and to us. Dowling shook his head and I refused, determined to retain my wits.

Josselin pushed two of the cups against my chest. ‘You would have me drink alone? Drink.’

We complied, me more willing than Dowling. Much to my surprise it tasted pleasant, like fresh apple. Josselin enjoyed it even more than I, for he sank the first cup in two draughts, nodding at Smythe for a refill.

He breathed deep and inspected his surrounds as if with fresh eyes, gazing into the boughs of the trees. ‘Difficult to believe this place is plagued. Such a beautiful place, I always thought.’ He finished his second cup barely slower than the first and belched softly. ‘Now I want to talk to the Reverend. Bring the flagon.’

A row of wild, yellow roses spread across the front of the rectory, tended lovingly. The door and windows were closed. Josselin kicked open the gate and staggered up the path, eyes half lidded. The village wardens watched from behind the low stone wall, fidgeting. Half a dozen other villagers emerged from the quiet to watch from a distance.

Josselin banged his fist upon the door. ‘Mompesson!’ he shouted, slurring.

A face appeared at the top window, craggy and heavy with a large straight nose. The man’s eyes were big and brown, unusually melancholic. He opened the window and leant out, hair hanging down his back, tied and clean, brushed of all knots. His elegant white linen shirt bore a plain broad collar. ‘My wife is asleep,’ he protested, staring down at Josselin. ‘Can ye not talk quietly?’

‘Certainly.’ Josselin waved an arm and staggered, before taking another swig from the flagon. ‘Come downstairs and we shall talk quietly.’

Mompesson didn’t move. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, eyeing the small gathering.

‘I am James Josselin,’ Josselin bowed. ‘Known to all for my exploits as a young boy.’ He held his hand up to his face and stared at the ridges on his fingers as if they were new.

Mompesson frowned. ‘Why do you come to Shyam, Mr Josselin? Our village is quarantined.’

‘I have been here some time, Reverend,’ said Josselin. ‘Your friend Thomas Elks locked me in a barn.’

Mompesson leant further out of the window in an attempt to read Josselin’s expression. But Josselin was drunk, swaying from side to side and licking his lips.

‘It’s true, Reverend,’ Smythe affirmed. ‘We found him ourselves.’

Josselin stepped in front of him. ‘How many have died, Reverend?’ he cried. ‘More than half the village. And what in God’s name inspired you to squeeze your own people into gibbets? What barbaric practice is that? Are they not your flock?’ He threw back his arms, legs splayed.

‘That was Elks’ decision,’ Mompesson replied, keeping his voice down. ‘We all decided, together, to remain within the parish boundaries until the plague abated.’

Josselin pointed an unsteady finger. ‘Not all, Reverend,’ he said. ‘Else there would be no need to place men in gibbets. Where is the rock upon whom these good people depend? Thou art great, O Lord God: for there is none like thee. I hear you lock yourself inside your church.’

‘God is with us,’ Mompesson growled.

‘The
plague
is with us, Reverend,’ Josselin replied. ‘God, I am not so sure. Perhaps he stays away? Else how did Elks come to earn such trust?’

Mompesson retreated, shadow falling upon his face. ‘If what you say is true, then he deceived us all.’

Josselin snorted. ‘He deceived you, you say, though his deception
was clear enough. You saw the gibbets, did you not? Now will God punish you for it, do you think? Does God punish everyone in this village for your errors?’

Mompesson thrust his head through the window, red-faced, the skin upon his neck pulsating in rhythm with his heart. ‘You are not a man of God, sir. I have heard stories of your heroism and applaud you for it. But you are not a man of God, nor will the people of this parish mistake you for one.’

‘I make no claim to be a man of God,’ Josselin shrugged. ‘You are the one who makes that claim.’

He turned away, distracted by the low murmuring of gathering villagers. Mary Hancock stood twenty paces away, watching
wide-eyed
.

‘And in the cage, four clerics,’ Josselin muttered, too low for the villagers to hear. ‘Come to spy upon me.’

Mompesson’s brows lifted in surprise. Josselin blinked, as if struggling to see straight. He attempted to smile, lips wet and eyes hooded.

He beckoned Mary Hancock. She walked towards him with short tentative steps. She was alone this morning.

‘Good sir,’ she exclaimed, eyes bright, falling to her knees. ‘How blessed are we that you should visit us in our hour of need.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ Josselin grinned. ‘Have we met before?’

‘No, sir,’ she replied. ‘Though I remember you. Everyone knows of your bravery at the Siege of Colchester.’

Josselin’s smile faded.

Mary Hancock didn’t seem to notice. ‘You proved Hugh Elks murdered Elizabeth Braine besides, I remember that too.’

‘Aye,’ Josselin replied, pensive. ‘So I did.’

Mary Hancock looked up at Mompesson, then at Josselin. ‘May we now leave Shyam?’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Many took the oath to stay, yet it seems we are punished for it. Perhaps it is God’s will that we leave.’

I held my breath.

‘God’s will?’ Mompesson spluttered from his window. ‘You presume to interpret God’s will? Get thee back to your house, Mary Hancock. Get down on your knees and pray hard. Pray you might be forgiven your ingratitude, that you and your family are all living. Is that not proof enough of God’s good intent?’

Mary Hancock bowed her head, yet maintained her gaze upon Josselin.

Josselin pursed his lips and frowned in concentration, scratching at his scalp. ‘I think we must remain in Shyam just a while longer,’ he said at last. He scanned the faces of those that circled him, eyes glinting and sharp.

Of course, I realised, heart sinking. He could hardly sanction the opening of the parish boundaries, when it was the quarantine that helped him avoid capture.

Mary Hancock’s shoulders slumped, and she stared at the ground.

‘Just a little while longer.’ Josselin laid a hand on her head. ‘Perhaps not very much longer.’

‘On whose authority do you issue instructions?’ Mompesson barked. ‘I am reverend of this parish. You are but a visitor!’

Josselin cocked his head, as if paying the Reverend’s words due respect. ‘A visitor, you say?’ he said at last. ‘More prodigal son. What say you, Smythe?’ He turned to the bald man.

Smythe nodded slowly. ‘More than a visitor, I would say,’ he replied, avoiding Mompesson’s eye.

Mompesson scanned the gathering audience. There were nearly fifteen people now, almost a quarter of the remaining population. I stepped backwards, fear gathering in my chest as I sensed the presence of plague.

‘Every man took an oath,’ Mompesson reminded the group, solemnly. ‘That no man would leave here, that we would trust unto God.’ He paused for affirmation, but no one spoke. ‘God tests us.’ He slammed his fist suddenly into the palm of his hand. ‘If we give way unto temptation, then we are surely condemned.’

‘I agree, Reverend.’ Josselin waved a hand like he bestowed a royal favour. ‘An oath has been sworn, and God would not forgive you were you to break that oath. But that was the only oath that was sworn, was it not?’ He sought confirmation from those about, readily granted. ‘None here swore to hunt each other with dogs? None here swore to kill each other and display each other’s corpses for all to see?’

‘I told you,’ Mompesson replied through clenched teeth. ‘Those were Elks’ decisions.’

‘Then rest assured, Reverend,’ Josselin bowed his head, ‘I shall make different decisions. Meantime we shall maintain the quarantine and imprison only the spies.’

He scanned the faces before him, spotting Marshall Howe stood attentively at the back, shovel on his shoulder. ‘Be not merciful to wicked transgressors, spies and traitors.’ He waved his mug in the air in Howe’s general direction.

Howe nodded.

A tired face appeared at Mompesson’s side, the face of a woman, red hair drawn back behind her shoulders. Her eyes widened and she buried her head upon his shoulder.

‘I will see you all tomorrow,’ Mompesson’s voice boomed, before he drew a curtain across the window and disappeared from view.

‘What is tomorrow?’ I asked Smythe.

‘Since the plague, there are two services a week,’ Smythe mumbled, scowling.

‘For which we must all be present,’ Josselin added, hearing our conversation. He placed an arm about my shoulders and belched. ‘Meantime I will talk to Smythe.’ He dropped his arm and hurried Smythe back towards the bridge.