Withypoll’s cheeks reddened. ‘His family lives in London. He is no more from Colchester than I.’
‘And who are you, sir?’ the man asked. ‘Where do you come from?’
‘I am a King’s agent from Whitehall Palace,’ Withypoll replied through clenched teeth. ‘Now open the gate afore I run my sword through your belly.’
‘I will summon the churchwarden,’ the short man replied, sourcing a greater courage than I had access to. He slid sideways out of our view, replaced by a taller man with red hair about his head and face. The new fellow stared silently, lips permanently pursed like he sucked a lemon as a baby and ne’er forgot the taste.
Withypoll dismounted and approached the gate, ignoring the musket pointed at his chest. I held my breath as the sentry’s finger twitched.
‘Sirs,’ called a new voice, belonging to a wizened old man with bent back. ‘My name is Lewis Duttman, an overseer. I am told you seek sanction to pass through to Colchester.’
‘We’ll pass, whether you sanction it or not,’ Withypoll replied. ‘We are pursuing James Josselin in the name of the King.’
Duttman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you pursue him?’
‘We carry a message,’ I called, tiring of Withypoll’s foul mood. ‘If it were not important, we would not have ventured this far. We must deliver the message, collect his reply, and return to London soonest.’
Duttman nodded thoughtfully, eyeing the soiled cloth that still clung to Withypoll’s head. ‘I will take you to George Jefferies. He is chief warden and knows Josselin better than any man.’
‘Better than Thyme?’
Duttman said nothing.
‘Your accountant, Thyme. Where may we find him?’
‘I pray you don’t seek to meddle in our affairs,’ Duttman answered. ‘I’ll thank you to dismount, gentlemen, and we will walk through town.’
I did as I was told, puzzled, and waited for the red-haired man to open the padlock and unwind the chain. A narrow bridge led over the river. We trod carefully, for the wall fell into the water. The horses manoeuvred crumbling potholes, pulling at the reins and rolling their eyes.
Duttman led us past two cavernous inns; the Red Lion on the left side and the Cock on the right. Both vast establishments, three storeys high, long half-timbered buildings with stables to the rear. Rows of chimneys spewed forth black smoke all through the winter, as travellers betwixt London and Colchester sought accommodation for the evening. Tonight, though, the huge buildings loomed dark and empty. The sun sank low, back west towards London, and a chill bit at the air.
‘Where shall we sleep?’ Withypoll asked Duttman.
‘You plan to stop here?’ Duttman asked startled. ‘Then I don’t know. Mr Jefferies ordered all the inns closed.’
Withypoll grunted.
At the toll house, buildings crowded in from all sides, two narrow alleys leading onwards. Duttman chose the west passage, called Back Street, down the middle of which flowed an open stream, thick and filthy. The heat of the day warmed the foul brew, yielding a stink that rivalled Fleet Ditch. We passed the Unicorn, the Rose, the Three Arrows, the Bull, the Talbot and the Angel, middling-size inns all as empty as the Red Lion and the Cock. The Bull and the Talbot bore red crosses.
‘No watchers?’ I asked Duttman.
‘This isn’t London,’ Duttman replied. ‘We know who is sick and who isn’t.’ He nodded his head towards a small stone dome ahead of us. ‘Any infected who try to leave their house, we lock them in the cage.’
I heard a low howl escape that same dome, thin and rasping.
‘There is someone in there now?’ I asked.
‘Aye,’ Duttman replied, avoiding my eye. ‘He won’t stay in his house no matter how many times we find him outside. He says he is clean of infection, yet every night he runs naked down to the river and jumps in.’
‘He is in pain,’ I protested.
‘He is in anguish,’ said Duttman. ‘His wife and child died two weeks ago.’
We turned the corner into the town square. Ahead of us crouched a peculiar structure, a house with no walls, constructed around eight oak pillars. The pillars supported a tiled roof, the inside bathed in a deep, red light, strange shadows, a familiar, sick, sweet smell. My eyes accustomed to the dusky light and I recognised corpses lain upon the floor, more than a dozen of them.
Dowling regarded Duttman severely. ‘That smell would drive any man to anguish. Were his wife and child laid here after they died?’
‘We lay everyone here after they die, until nightfall,’ Duttman replied.
The man in the cage groaned again, a mournful dirge, deep and sorrowful. ‘His house is nearby,’ I guessed.
‘Just there.’ Duttman pointed to a row of shops to the left of the south gate. ‘How did you know?’
I recalled the smell of my house when Jane lay there sick, her aunt’s dead body in the other bedroom. ‘It is why he runs to the river. He
smells their death, breathes it into his lungs. He runs to the river to cleanse himself.’
‘You talk like a woman, Lytle,’ said Withypoll, wrinkling his nose. He turned to Duttman. ‘Where is Jefferies?’
Duttman pointed again, at a large house just past the cage. ‘Just here. Likely he is at home.’
I caught a glimpse of the churchyard, through the south gate, of men digging a great hole. ‘How many have died?’ I asked.
‘Sixty-two,’ Duttman replied. ‘More than thirty this last month alone. There must always be holes.’
Tears pricked my eyes. Jane and I left London before the plague fully penetrated the City wall. I didn’t see the worst of it.
Duttman entered Jefferies’ house without knocking and led us across the threshold into another stifling hot room. A round table filled the space, five chairs tucked neatly beneath it. A tall, lithe fellow sat in the corner, nestled snug within the depths of a deep, cushioned chair, feet up before a fire, over which burnt a chaffing dish of tar, frankincense and resin. The flames lit his face up orange, illuminating an expression I found difficult to read. His eyes were icy blue, and something happened to his lips. It was as if he smiled, but not quite. He wore his shirt open about his chest and lay with his shoes on, varnished boots of the finest leather in which the flames danced clearly. He didn’t move from his seat, unperturbed by Withypoll’s stern gaze of admonishment.
‘I hear you are King’s men,’ said Jefferies. He gestured to the round table. ‘Sit down.’
Dowling ran his hand over the new polished wood. ‘An unusual table.’
‘Aye,’ said Jefferies, joining us. ‘I had it built especially. When
the plague first struck, all the wardens argued, bickering as to who should have the grandest title, the most money to spend. I am the chief constable, the others are all constables, and we sit in a circle.’
‘You meet here, in your house?’ said Dowling.
Jefferies lips changed form, though I couldn’t tell what emotion played out on his face. ‘I paid for the table.’
Withypoll sneered.
Jefferies watched Withypoll, without fear or concern. ‘Chelmsford is such a town, gentlemen. Before the plague, all curried favour with Lord Mildmay. After he fled they sought to establish a new hierarchy. Meantime men are dying.’
‘Duttman told us you know James Josselin,’ I said, keen to find out all I could. ‘You and a fellow called Thyme.’
Did Jefferies smile? ‘If you are looking for Thyme, then you have found him already.’
‘You?’ I asked, confused.
He shook his head. ‘The man whose voice you hear singing sweet songs from within the cage.’
I listened intent. ‘Can I talk to him?’
Jefferies’ lips changed again. ‘You may talk to him, but he won’t talk to you. He hasn’t spoken a sensible word since his wife died.’
I cursed inwardly. ‘Then what can you tell us of Josselin?’
He leant back and folded his arms. ‘I know him quite well, and have always found him to be a sensible fellow. A bit quiet, perhaps. But he was strange last time he was here.’