Hearts of Darkness (4 page)

Next morning we met Withypoll at Whitehall.

All that remained of Berkshire’s body was a wide black stain upon the rich yellow fabric of an intricately carved, upholstered chair. All about was deathly quiet. I scanned the small room: polished walls, squat French console with legs bowed like a bulldog, a tall walnut chest of drawers. All positioned about the edge of a fine, oriental rug laid precisely upon the wooden floor. I stole a glance out the window towards the river, saw the boats meandering well away from the
well-guarded
jetty. Behind us lay the Privy Garden, the King’s private place of reflection and repose.

‘Arlington said they found him pinned by James Josselin’s blade,’ I recalled. ‘How did he know it was Josselin’s blade?’

Withypoll sauntered across the marquetry floor of the panelled
room like a prudish heron. Circling the chair, he opened the door of a tall, narrow cupboard. He reached inside, turned quick and tossed a sword at me. I leapt backwards as the weapon clattered to the floor. Its steel blade stretched two feet long, shiny at the tip, scarlet stain along its shaft. Two intertwined letter ‘J’s formed the bar cage, intricate and beautiful.

‘The scabbard is missing,’ said Withypoll. ‘But the weapon is Josselin’s. Every man at court would swear it.’

‘So Josselin marched into the heart of the palace, killed a man with his own blade, then left it for all to see,’ I said.

‘Marching into the palace was simple,’ said Withypoll. ‘He came here often. He was obviously interrupted and ran away. It matters not whether he left his blade or not. He was caught in the act.’

‘Who interrupted him?’ Dowling growled.

‘The guards, a servant, whoever was around,’ Withypoll replied, dismissively. ‘It is of no import. Arlington told me to show you the scene of his death, not to answer foolish questions.’

‘Seen and chased then.’ I moved slowly back to the door and looked out. ‘Across the courtyard and out into the gallery.’

Withypoll glided into a position behind my right shoulder. ‘So I presume.’

‘You presume a lot.’

‘Talk to me again like that, Lytle,’ Withypoll hissed into my ear, ‘and I shall prick your tiny heart.’

His warm breath lingered upon my neck and I felt my face flush. I determined to keep my mouth closed.

Dowling dropped to his knees in front of the chair and sniffed at the dried blood like a dog. He poked his finger into the torn cloth, wriggled it, then stood up and twisted the heavy chair about with one hand,
revealing a long, ragged tear. ‘No blood at the back.’ He dropped the chair, pulled the edges of the material apart, and invited us to peer within.

‘The blood poured out of his chest, butcher,’ Withypoll retorted. ‘Not his back.’

‘Aye,’ Dowling nodded. ‘But when a blade cuts through a piece of meat it carries the blood with it. Unless the blade is swung fast and with great force.’

‘I have never heard of a man stabbing another man to death
slowly
,’ said Withypoll.

‘Indeed,’ Dowling conceded. ‘But by the time a sword reaches a man’s spine it runs slow, unless the man that plunged it is uncommonly strong.’

‘Then James Josselin is uncommonly strong,’ said Withypoll.

Dowling grunted. ‘Who was here at the time?’

Withypoll smiled. ‘The Duke of York? Prince Rupert? The Duchess of Portsmouth?’

‘All of them?’

‘I don’t know.’ Withypoll drifted out towards the gallery, suddenly bored. ‘Nor will I enquire. We’re here because Arlington told me to bring you here. He wanted you to see the scene of the killing so you might set about your task with fire in your bellies. He didn’t give you permission to interview the King’s court. Berkshire is dead and Josselin is the murderer.’

We stood at the heart of the King’s domain, not fifty paces from the King’s own quarters, his bedchamber, bathroom and laboratory. We loitered like flies that tiptoed across the sticky strands of some intricate web without being snared. Were we wise, we should count our fortune fast, afore spreading our tiny wings and seeking safe passage before the spider arrived.

‘I would like to see his corpse,’ said Dowling.

Withypoll laughed. ‘Berkshire’s body lies in state. You think his family will tolerate your intrusions? A butcher and a …’ He stared at me with black eyes.

I ran my fingers across the woven coat of arms at the head of the chair, bloodied, ruined. Pomp, majesty and circumstance, all signifying nothing. Few cared who killed Berkshire, I realised, only that someone be executed for the deed.

Withypoll removed his beaver hat and rubbed his fingers through damp yellow hair. He bent over and picked up Josselin’s sword. ‘You have seen the blood; you have seen the weapon. Even you dull fools must see what happened here.’ He replaced the sword in the cupboard. ‘Now we leave. I will not waste any more time on you two.’

He clicked his fingers and waved his arm, bidding us to trot out the door like King Spaniels.

We followed him back along the Stone Gallery out towards Pebble Court, past a long file of stiff, silent statues contorted in classical pose upon the matted floor. Behind the doors upon our left resided the King’s most favourite courtiers, each enjoying a view out onto the Privy Garden. Strange the King allowed himself to be so constantly the subject of others’ attentions. He held regular court in his bedroom, supposedly.

‘Hurry up, Lytle.’ Withypoll waited at the top of the new stone staircase. ‘Afore someone wonders why I roam the palace with tradesmen.’ He bustled us downstairs and out into the summer air.

‘So, then.’ He faced us, drawing himself straight and imperious, for the benefit of those others wandering the courtyard. ‘You
have witnessed the scene of Berkshire’s execution and are suitably impressed.’

‘I want to talk to Josselin’s wife,’ said Dowling.

Withypoll frowned. ‘He doesn’t have a wife.’

‘Edward Josselin’s wife, I mean.’

Withypoll blinked. ‘How many times do I need to remind you that you have one sole purpose in this affair, and that is to fetch James Josselin out of Shyam?’ He placed the fur hat back upon his head and twisted it slowly until content with the balance. ‘Meet me at Bishopsgate, at six tomorrow morning,’ he snapped, afore casting upon me one last poisonous stare. Then he was gone, long strides carrying him across the face of the Banqueting House back to King Street.

‘I don’t know why he looks at
me
like that,’ I said, most offended. ‘It was you provoked him.’

Dowling watched Withypoll disappear. ‘Arlington put him in a black mood, not I. He didn’t want to bring us here at all.’

‘Aye, well I see little point of it myself,’ I replied. ‘We came to view a body and saw a chair.’

Dowling started walking slowly after Withypoll. ‘Something is amiss. It’s not possible to thrust a sword that deep into a man and yet leave no blood at the point of departure.’

‘Berkshire had thick blood?’

Dowling shook his head. ‘And how did Josselin escape? There are sentries in the Stone Gallery. Why didn’t they stop him?’

Why, indeed.

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘Arlington thinks we are simpletons, which is good for us, but Withypoll does not. He will go back to Arlington now and tell him what we said. We
should have acted as if we believed every word of it.’

‘We should go and speak to Josselin’s wife, anyway,’ I said, feeling brave.

‘Aye.’ Dowling placed a hairy arm about my shoulder and squeezed me hard. ‘While Withypoll trots back to his master.’

There was always God to protect us. Dowling slapped me across the top of the head when I started to hum a hymn, suspecting me of mockery. So I sang instead, until the strain I heard in my own voice left me too sad to continue. I felt trapped. If we went with Withypoll we faced probable death, but if we refused, our death was certain.

Later that day we walked the cobbled streets beneath a dying, orange sun. London blossomed like a spring day after a harsh winter. No red crosses upon the doors, no death-carts, the church bells quiet. Yet the streets emptied fast once darkness descended, for the night welcomed poisonous airs, and many feared the plague still lingered.

The Josselins lived in a large house close to Aldgate. We decided I would enter alone, so not to frighten the widow. I was shorter than Dowling and more presentable. He waited outside.

The house stood three-and-a-half storeys high, a veritable castle. The front windows projected over the street in a great curve, framed in oak panels. Each storey leant out a little further than the one below, pressing forward, obliging the passer-by to acknowledge the
proud lines of heraldic coats of arms. Up and down each side of the house paraded a line of grotesque gargoyles with what looked like women’s breasts; a facade befitting the importance of the man inside. Not important enough to dissuade Arlington from killing him.

My heart pounded in time with my fist as I knocked upon the oaken doors standing almost twice my height. Dowling watched from across the street, arms folded.

A slim woman opened the door, head bowed. She carried a bundle of black knitting wool in her right hand. We only disposed of the body a few hours ago. Had news travelled so fast? I caught my breath and tried to swallow my anxiety.

She wore the rough, plain clothes of a servant and stood upon the threshold staring resolutely at my feet. When she didn’t look up or otherwise acknowledge my presence, I cleared my tight throat and told her I worked for the King, whereupon she lifted her head, revealing a pale face with large, strange-shaped freckles. She mumbled something and faced back into the house. Though she was no more than twenty years old, she walked with the slow solemnity of an old woman.

She led me past a narrow wooden staircase, twisting up into the eaves of the great house, and into a long room, wood-panelled from floor to ceiling with a great fireplace at the far end. The white plaster ceiling was carved with yet more coats of arms. Left on my own, I paid particular attention to a painting hung between two windows on the far wall. A bowl of fruit, a loaf of bread, a cup of wine and a plate of grapes.

A husky voice sounded from behind. ‘Good afternoon.’ A handsome lady of mature years, grey hair drawn into a bun at the crown of her head. She wore a plain, woollen dress and clutched her hands before her. Despite the laugh lines about her eyes and mouth, she regarded me
warily, lips held tight. Behind her trailed a younger woman, wearing a turquoise bodice and full-flowing skirt, slightly worn and colours bleached, dragging noisily upon the floor. She hovered, pale-faced and anxious, the skin about her eyes twitching gently. The room smelt damp.

I bowed. ‘Good morning, Mrs Josselin. My name is Harry Lytle. Thank you for receiving me.’ I pointed to the food and drink, unable to contain my curiosity. ‘This painting. Is it Dutch?’

She attempted a smile. ‘Do you like paintings, Mr Lytle?’

‘I like what I like,’ I replied, glad to have something to talk about. ‘This one is good.’ I narrowed my eyes and peered at the signature. ‘Is it an original?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Painted by a young artist. Abraham Mignon.’

‘Mignon,’ I repeated, admiringly, before turning to face her. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘My husband. He bought it from a dealer in the City.’ A line appeared across her forehead. Beads of sweat formed upon the top lip of her younger companion. I hadn’t made a good start. I looked about the room, eager for something else trivial to discuss.

‘What do you want, Mr Lytle?’ she asked.

‘Where is your son?’ I asked frankly, unable to think what else to say.

I noticed the quick widening of the eyes and dropping of her jaw, a momentary expression of panic she rapidly concealed. The young woman clutched at a fragment of lacy cloth.

‘I don’t know where he is,’ Mrs Josselin replied, terse. ‘He is missing these last four days. My husband told me I should not worry.’

The husband she would not see again. I tried to blank the image of his dead body from my mind. I felt my head jerk and my body shiver.

Mrs Josselin tried to catch my eye. ‘Are you well, Mr Lytle?’

‘Well enough, Mrs Josselin,’ I replied. Healthier than her husband. I determined not to allow my heart to thaw until after I left. ‘Did you know James is in trouble?’

‘No,’ she breathed.

I stared into her beautiful, dark-blue eyes, and noticed the few strands of fair hair that remained amongst the grey. ‘I can help your son, Mrs Josselin,’ I said. ‘If you permit me.’

She recoiled, mouth curling. ‘Why should he need your help?’

‘You must tell me about him, what he does, who he spends time with.’

Her expression remained stoic.

‘Mrs Josselin, if you do not permit me, he will likely be tried for murder.’

The young woman gasped, clasping her hands to her mouth, bending forwards like she had a bellyache.

‘Are you his sister?’ I asked.

‘Eliza is his betrothed,’ Mrs Josselin replied, as if I said something disgusting.

Betrothed to a man who fled into the heart of pestilence. Her eyes shone wet and she bit on a thick, red lip with moon-white teeth.

‘How long are you engaged?’ I asked.

‘Almost a year,’ Eliza replied, eyes searching mine. Long, black hair hung dishevelled about her pale, oval face. ‘You speak of murder.’ She covered her mouth with one hand as soon as the words escaped. New tears appeared upon her cheeks.

‘Lord Arlington says he killed the Earl of Berkshire,’ I answered.

‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Josselin exclaimed. ‘Charles Howard is James’s best friend. I don’t believe you.’

The younger woman did though. Her face crumpled into a scarlet mess.

Mrs Josselin leant forwards, smile sculpted on her face. ‘My son serves Lord Arlington. Why should his lordship say such a thing?’

Because he was a black-hearted demon. ‘Arlington says he sabotaged a peace mission, besides,’ I revealed. ‘Which accusation by itself is serious.’ Serious enough to see him executed.

Mrs Josselin stamped her foot upon the wooden floor. ‘My son is neither a murderer nor a traitor. The idea is absurd. What evidence do you bring with you to support such an accusation?’

‘None at all.’ I spread my hands. ‘For it is not my accusation. You may ask Lord Arlington yourself, though I would not advise it.’

The young woman buried her head in her hands and began to wail, a mournful sound that spoke of fractured anguish. Discouraging besides, for I fancied she might know more of his movements than the mother. Mrs Josselin stood erect, eyes darting side to side. Embarrassed, I realised, to be presented with such grave news by one so common.

‘Would that my husband were here,’ she said, voice choking. ‘He would tell you of this family’s loyalty to King and country. He should
whip
you with it.’ She quivered with angry indignation.

‘He would be wasting his time,’ I sighed. ‘I have not challenged his loyalty, nor yours, nor your son’s.’ I held up my hand as her brow fell over her eyes. ‘For he is accused. He has fled into Essex and will be pursued. If he is innocent then there is foul trickery at play, which I am not a part of.’

Mrs Josselin stepped towards me, eyes narrowed. ‘Why else would you be here?’ she demanded, while her young companion continued to bawl. ‘Perhaps to prise stories from us you can use against him.’

I sat down heavily upon a well-worn chair with frayed upholstery. She descended upon me like a great spider and thrust her beautiful, old face into mine. It was like donning a pair of spectacles, the delicate lines that ridged her scrubbed skin loomed sharply into focus.

She cocked her head like she intended to peck out my eyes. ‘My husband is missing, not only my son,’ she said, slowly. ‘What do you know of that?’

I knew my face betrayed my unease. ‘I heard he was arrested,’ I admitted, ‘by those keen to prove your son’s guilt. Think on it, Mrs Josselin. If your son is innocent, then someone else killed Berkshire and accuses him of treachery. That person will do everything they can to ensure the lie is not discovered.’

‘Who arrested him?’

‘Arlington.’

‘Do you work for Lord Arlington?’ she asked, eyes sharp and piercing.

‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘He commands this investigation.’

‘You said you wanted to help us,’ she said. ‘Yet you work for Lord Arlington and I know Arlington for what he is. If he has decided my son is guilty, it is because it is politic to do so. He wastes no energy in pursuit of the truth.’

‘You know him better than I, then,’ I answered, dry-mouthed.

‘Say you,’ she snapped. ‘Come now, Eliza.’ She withdrew, watching me like she would a snake.

Eliza stared at me with red-rimmed eyes sunk painfully within a snotty face, more like a young girl than a full-grown woman. As she opened her mouth I watched a strand of saliva stretch from top lip to bottom. I could not imagine James Josselin confiding anything of
importance to such an innocent. Mrs Josselin took her arm and pulled her away.

‘I am leaving tomorrow, Mrs Josselin,’ I told her calmly. ‘If you tell me nothing, then I cannot help you, and I can assure you no one else will, unless you count the King a fond acquaintance.’

She stopped her passage out of the room. ‘What would you have me tell you, Mr Lytle? What evidence do you think I might offer you? You, who come here to help, you who asks me questions about the Dutch paintings on our walls.’

‘Anything to disprove his guilt,’ I replied, standing. ‘You said Berkshire was his friend.’

‘I said his
best
friend, Mr Lytle.’ Mrs Josselin stabbed her long thin finger into my chest. ‘A friendship you could never understand. They are two fine men.’

‘Aye,’ I replied, angered by the contempt with which she smothered me. ‘So fine he fled. I have never met your fine son, nor the Earl of Berkshire, yet I must risk my life to find him, else Arlington will have me killed.’ I felt my face flush.

Mrs Josselin recoiled as if I’d slapped her, anger draining from her leathery face, replaced with abject fear. ‘You say my son sabotaged a peace accord. My son was determined England should make peace with the Dutch. Two great Protestant nations,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘No.’ I bowed my head. ‘Well, neither do I. Yet I would agree with your summation of Arlington’s character. I don’t know who else will help your son if not us.’

Her lips pursed again. ‘Us?’

‘There are two of us.’ I decided to tell her all. ‘Myself and David Dowling. He is a butcher. We both work for Lord Arlington, neither
of us willingly. We’ve seen what he is capable of.’

Eliza started weeping again, a whining noise with a life of its own, thin and ethereal.

‘I don’t know what I can tell you,’ Mrs Josselin replied.

‘Where he was four nights ago. What business he conducted on behalf of Arlington. Anything that proves he is not a traitor.’

‘I don’t know where he was four nights ago, for he stays often at the palace,’ she answered. ‘And I don’t know what business he conducts for Lord Arlington, for he doesn’t share royal secrets with his mother. What I will tell you is that this family has a proud history of loyalty to the King. Were the King to sit back and allow my son to be persecuted, then it would be a disgrace upon his crown.’ Her body trembled with indignation. ‘I was at the siege of Colchester in 1648, nearly twenty years ago. So was Edward, so was James. I will not tell you what indignities we suffered, but I will tell you one thing if you don’t know it already.’ She held up a trembling hand. ‘My son was but nine years old in 1648, and yet he volunteered to carry a message out to the King’s men, without my knowledge nor Edward’s.’ She pointed at my forehead. ‘They captured him and tortured him, yet he told them nothing. A nine-year-old boy.’

A fine tale, I conceded, yet it held little relevance to current events. My face must have betrayed my disappointment, for she shot me a venomous glance of ripe disgust and turned away.

‘Mr Lytle.’ Eliza shot forward and dropped to her knees at my feet. ‘You must bring him back to us. You must
promise
to do that.’ She seized my right hand with both of hers and dug her nails into my skin.

‘I promise to try,’ I replied. ‘Though I would gladly hear what else you might tell me of him, for I have never met him.’

‘Stand up, Eliza,’ Mrs Josselin scolded her.

‘He is a brave man,’ Eliza declared, gazing earnestly into my eyes. ‘He is quite tall and very noble. He has long, dark hair and talks all the time about fighting for his King. He yearns only to kill Dutchmen, Frenchmen or Spaniards.’ She pursed her lips, holding back the tears.

‘Aye, then,’ I answered, slipping my hand free and helping her to her feet. ‘At least I will recognise him now.’ A tall lunatic killing anyone who looks foreign.

‘But your promise.’ She snatched back my hand again. ‘You must promise to bring him back, not merely to try.’

‘Come, Eliza.’ Mrs Josselin tugged gently at her sleeve. ‘If he is a worthy man no promise is necessary. If he is not, his promise holds no value.’

The young betrothed allowed herself to be led from the room, still staring, seeking assurance desperately.

I was left alone, black-hearted and dejected. I could barely summon the energy to breathe, I felt so rotten. The young woman, so fearful she might not see her betrothed again. Likely she would not, and I knew it. Josselin’s wife, so suspicious and angry. I glimpsed the desperation hidden behind that proud mask and hated myself for seeing it. Whatever vision she nurtured, it wasn’t the one that appeared in my head; her husband lain sprawled, Arlington’s strange blade protruding from his ribs.

Another woman entered the room, another knitter, though older than the last. A stout woman with a stiff white hat upon her head and a large, black wart nestled upon her cheek. She knitted as she walked, shuffling forwards, head down.