A Plague of Sinners (14 page)

I waited for some acknowledgement. He nodded.

‘You will inform Alderman Fuller his nurse is an intoxicated harridan and that she is not worthy of appointment.’ I forced myself to contain the grief that threatened to overwhelm me, for already he frowned, suspicious. ‘A new nurse is to be appointed immediately to tend to the two women within, one of whom is on the point of the death, the other who might yet be saved.’

He peered at me. ‘Who shall I say instructed it?’

‘The medic, of course,’ I roared. ‘I will be back before the day is out and you will comply with my instruction if you wish to retain your own poor post.’

I glared at his distorted face through the glass eyepieces, turned on my heel, and marched back to Newgate.

I entered Dowling’s house quiet and hid the medic’s garb inside a basket by the door.

‘Where have you been?’ Dowling bellowed, stomping into the room just as I straightened. ‘You’ve been away all morning. Did it not occur to you I might think you captured again?’

I eyed the fresh white bandage. ‘How is your thumb? I fetched some fleabane.’

‘Fleabane?’ Dowling exclaimed. His face appeared pale, eyes tired. I reckoned he had been up most of the night. ‘Will ye stop agonising over me like an old woman?’ Yet his eyes searched for the powder.

‘Let me dress it for you,’ I offered. ‘I have seen Jane do it many times. I’m late because she’s become infected besides. The nurse is a drunkard sow and Jane was not being cared for.’

Dowling grunted, bashful now, which was my intent. I fetched the bandage and unwrapped his thumb. The skin stretched tight and red so you couldn’t distinguish where his knuckle began and ended. Where his fingernail should have been was but a thick crust of dried blood. I washed it for him, while he did his best to demonstrate how incidental was the pain, then spread the fleabane thick. If an infection took hold he might lose his hand, his arm, even his life. ‘We will get you to an apothecary later,’ I said, ‘unless you’re a bigger fool than even I.’

‘Aye, later,’ he agreed with strained tone. ‘Burke is at Ludgate.’

I looked up and pressed his thumb too hard. He flinched and gasped. ‘Ludgate is a debtors’ prison.’

‘I know not
why
he is at Ludgate, Harry,’ Dowling hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Only that he
is
at Ludgate and they say he killed Wharton.’

‘Aye, then.’ I bandaged his thumb quick and allowed him to shuffle me back out onto the street.

Though my legs carried me to Ludgate, my heart and mind still lingered inside my little house. Now they lay there with no nurse at all. Would Hearsey do as I ordered, or would he sit himself back down and go to sleep? What if the nurse begged to be forgiven and asked for her job back? What if she denied her drunkenness and accused me? I needed to get back there soon, make sure Fuller did his job. I pledged to return forthwith and tried to clear my mind for just a short while.

‘Remember the poor prisoners!’ I heard the sound of the crier even from the shadow of St Paul’s.

It was expensive being a debtor. It cost three shillings to be arrested, two pennies to have your name entered in the
register, fourteen pence to be admitted, a penny for lodging, eighteen pence for sheets, four shillings to keep your own clothes, and sixteen pence table money. To get out again cost two shillings, fourteen pence to open the door the other way, and twelve pence for every action taken against you. Debtors being debtors had no such funds, so they had to beg for money from within the jail, so they could give it to the jailers.

Two guards stepped forth at our approach, ready to prevent us passage beneath the great arch, for Ludgate Hill led to St Giles-in-the-Fields, where the plague roamed unrestrained.

We sought no passage out the arch, only into the prison, which was not usually difficult. Today though, the tower was locked tight closed. King Lud frowned down upon us with black and crumbling face.

Dowling rapped on the prison door. Lazy eyes appeared at the iron grille, atop a long, narrow nose and thin-lipped mouth. A spidery moustache crept sideways and down towards a pointed chin.

Dowling held up his seal. ‘Open the door.’

‘No,’ replied the guard.

Dowling pushed the paper up hard against the little grate. ‘This is the King’s authority.’

The hooded eyes regarded the seal without great interest. ‘So it is,’ he agreed in muffled tone. ‘But our instructions are also royal, and say we can admit no man until the plague is gone.’

Dowling banged his palm against the door. ‘We are here at the request of Lord Arlington, in whose name were
writ
the Plague Orders.’

The man pushed his head closer. ‘What request?’

I nudged Dowling aside so he could calm himself. ‘We have come to talk to one of your prisoners.’

The long nose wrinkled. ‘What prisoner?’

‘Henry Burke.’

‘Methinks not.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Though I be only the Assistant, I can tell you Burke cannot be seen by any, even those within the prison. I, for example, may not see Henry Burke.’

‘Lord Arlington has not requested you to see Henry Burke,’ I pointed out.

‘Well I cannot help you,’ he declared. Yet the grille remained open and he remained behind it, staring out.

I hid my frustration behind an iron smile. ‘Who can help us?’

‘I don’t have the key to his cell.’ The Assistant shrugged. ‘Nor does the Under-Steward. Only the Master-of-the-Box has that key. Ye may ask the Under-Steward and he may commend ye to the Master-of-the-Box.’

‘Then we will talk to the Master-of-the-Box.’

‘So ye may,’ he replied. ‘Once ye have spoken to the Under-Steward.’

‘Then we will talk to the Under-Steward.’

He sniffed and rubbed a finger across his nose. ‘To talk to the Under-Steward ye must pay me a shilling.’

‘A shilling?’ I retorted.

‘Aye, and then the Under-Steward will charge you two shillings to talk to the Master-of-the-Box.’

‘No,’ I snapped, fed up of leaking coins in service of the King. ‘You saw the royal seal. We will talk to whosoever we wish without paying you a shilling, nor so much as a penny.’

The man’s lazy brow dropped further in disappointment. ‘Then I cannot help you.’

Dowling jabbed a finger in my ribs. ‘If we paid you three
shillings then might we speak immediately with the Master-of-the-Box?’

The eyes looked doubtful. ‘The Under-Steward would not be happy.’

‘Four shillings then.’

‘Come to the begging gate.’ The grille snapped closed.

‘You have four shillings?’ Dowling growled as we walked around the corner.

‘Aye,’ I fessed, reluctantly. Four more shillings I would never see again.

The Assistant stood waiting for us, long and drawn out, narrow-chested like a boy, trousers hung at half mast down his legs. He pushed a jar out through the bars, full of vinegar. ‘Put the money in the jar.’ Once I complied he nodded his head and disappeared back to the grille.

The bolt slid open and at last we were permitted entry. The Assistant took one long tentative step out onto the street and craned his neck to inspect the bright sun. ‘A good day to be outside, yet you insist on coming inside.’

‘Only for a short while,’ I replied, impatient. He stared again at the sun like he would spread himself upon the street and soak up its rays, afore retreating slowly. He locked the door behind him, and led us up the spiral stone staircase. The stones were big and grey, and cool to the touch.

We heard the low chatter before reaching the long room above. Twenty men dwelt between its walls, all dressed well-to-do, merchants and tradesmen. Seemed they had little opportunity to wash their fine clothes, for the stink of unwashed bodies soaked the humid air. Several gazed out the windows, clutching the bars, faces pressed against the grille, scanning the empty road hopefully for miracle benefactors.
Others sat on the floor and stared at the ceiling, resigned to their fate. Some played cards, oblivious. None of them was Burke.

The Assistant led us across bare boards to an open door opposite. ‘Up again. Burke is locked up in his own cell.’

Another stone staircase led to a wide corridor, an open office at the end. The cells to our left and right were obviously home to the men downstairs, for the doors stood open. Each cell housed a bed or two and a smattering of other poor possessions. Anything of value would be sold.

‘Master-of-the-Box,’ the Assistant announced.

An old man sat at a desk in the middle of bare boards. His white head hung over a thin book, forehead touching the table, snoring. He was quite a large gentleman, with broad shoulders and broader belly.

When I knocked on the table next to his ear his snowy head jerked up, bleary, red eyes searching for the source of his disturbance. His gaze lighted upon the Assistant and he blinked quizzically.

The Assistant bowed quickly. ‘These men say they come from the King. They have paid for the honour of your company.’ He hurried out the room.

The Master-of-the-Box stretched his arms out wide in a mighty yawn and rubbed his sleepy face. ‘The King?’

‘We have come to see Henry Burke,’ I said.

He cleared his throat and gathered his jacket about his shoulders. ‘No one can visit Henry Burke. By order.’

Dowling showed his credentials. ‘By order of the King?’

‘By order of Lord Chelwood,’ the man replied, standing up.

‘The King outranks Chelwood.’

‘Aye.’ The older man looked down his nose at me. ‘But I
think Mr Forman and Mr Withypoll outrank you.’ He lifted his arm and let his hand drop towards Dowling. ‘You look like a boatman.’ He turned to me. ‘And your clothes are as creased and crumpled as those we keep here. Show me
your
credentials.’

‘You would be foolish to deny us.’ Dowling scowled. ‘For if you do, then we will return with a warrant and soldiers.’ The tip of his nose and the crown of his cheeks burnt red. ‘Come on, Harry.’

‘Hold!’ The white-haired man lifted a finger, clearly shocked. ‘We can come to an arrangement.’

Dowling turned. ‘How much?’

‘Mr Forman and Mr Withypoll paid me a surety of five shillings.’

‘Then we will also pay you five shillings,’ Dowling said.

The Master-of-the-Box nodded in satisfaction afore reaching in his desk for a small leather-bound journal and another jar of vinegar. All tradesmen now used vinegar when receiving money, to clean the coins of sticky atoms. Once we settled his account, he led us out, keys clanking on his belt, down a small, dark passage to the left. At the end was a locked door. He fiddled with his keys for what seemed an age, afore admitting us to a small anteroom with three cells lined up behind it. Burke lay upon a wooden bench in the cell to the left, face to the wall. The other two cells were empty.

‘Open the cell,’ Dowling commanded. ‘We will leave Mr Lytle here awhile to talk.’

The Master-of-the-Box stared as though he’d been slapped about the face. ‘You don’t wish to talk to him besides?’

‘I will come with you,’ smiled Dowling. ‘So you do not seek to earn yourself another five shillings by alerting Forman and Withypoll to our presence.’

The Master opened his mouth and closed it again, then did as he was told. I stared at Burke’s rounded back. He remained curled up like a little piglet for several minutes, before peeking over his shoulder. His wig was gone, revealing a loose baggy scalp dotted with peppered bristles. He wore the same black trousers and billowing white shirt he wore last we saw him. His jacket and waistcoat had been taken.

‘Burke,’ I greeted him in low voice.

His face wrinkled. ‘You,’ he slurred. ‘That asks so many questions and will not leave me alone.’

I grabbed a rickety chair and sat down. ‘They say you confessed to the murder of Thomas Wharton?’

‘Murder?’ He pulled himself up straight. ‘What nonsense is that? I have confessed to no murder.’

‘Ah, well,’ I settled myself. ‘That’s not what the news says.’

A single window high up the wall admitted a square of sharp light. It was silent in here, so quiet you might hear the sound of your own heart beating the seconds and minutes away.

Burke wriggled into a sitting position, indignant and afraid. ‘I have committed no murder,’ he repeated. ‘It is
your
fault I am here!’

‘How so my fault?’

‘They were going to let me stay with Tanner until the real murderer was discovered,’ Burke exploded. ‘After you turned up they said prison was the safest place.’

‘They brought you here because it is
safe
?’

Hatred and fear fought upon his face. ‘Aye, so they did. Safe from you, yet here you are again, and I will not talk to you.’

‘You will.’ I pulled a blade from out beneath my breeches,
taken from Dowling’s kitchen. ‘Else I will stab you.’ This was the third time we spoke to him and little had we gained thus far.

He backed against the wall. ‘Godamercy!’

I pointed the blade at his chest. ‘
Did
you kill Wharton?’

His face blazed ruddy scarlet. ‘No,’ he exclaimed. ‘I am a wine merchant.’

‘And what of Death and Famine? Who killed them?’

‘Who are Death and Famine?’ he spluttered.

I did not have the patience to explain fully. ‘Wharton’s dogs named themselves after horsemen. Death was found inside one of your barrels at The Bull Head and Famine at the bottom of the river chained to another.’

Burke shook his head, staring at the knife. ‘Not me!’

‘Who then?’

Burke pushed his face into his palms and glared through his fingers.

I lifted the blade. ‘Your friends Forman and Withypoll tried to kill me yesterday.’

He glared. ‘You should have stayed away. Why can you not mind your own business?’

‘My business is finding out who killed three men,’ I answered. ‘What is your business with Forman and Withypoll? You were with them at The Mermaid, and then again at the Guildhall.’

Burke closed one eye and muttered to himself.

‘What did you talk to them about at The Mermaid?’

‘Why would you know that?’ he grunted.

‘Because I would know who killed Wharton, you great oaf!’ I lost my patience. ‘These men, Forman and Withypoll, in whom you place such trust, have locked you in a prison cell
and let it be known you killed Wharton! Why will you not talk to me?’

‘It is Forman and Withypoll tried to kill you,’ he exclaimed. ‘Not you that tried to kill them. I am afraid of them, but I am not afraid of you!’ He slouched against the wall and folded his arms in a great sulk. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’