Arlington pulled from his coat a thin, short blade, a bright, shiny spike mounted upon a leather-clad handle, and handed it to his covetous accomplice. Withypoll took the strange weapon in his palm and regarded it as if it was a great jewel. Then he seized Josselin by the hair, lifted him up and wrenched his body backwards, plunging the blade so deep into his heart the handle stuck in his ribs. Josselin’s
eyelids fluttered a brief moment, then he lay motionless, sprawled back upon his chair, hand still bound to the block. A small circle of blood formed upon his chest.
From Dowling’s mouth emanated a sigh of utter sadness and misery. Withypoll rubbed his hands together, smug satisfaction etched upon his vile features. Arlington scowled. Dowling and I stared, stunned and appalled. The blood seeped quickly outwards.
‘I am disappointed in you both.’ Arlington spoke to Dowling this time. ‘You killed Wharton’s wife, did you not? And a Frenchman. Yet you baulk at the killing of a traitor.’
Withypoll picked at the knife handle with his fingertips, oblivious to the oozing blood, but it stuck fast. He would need another knife to dig that one loose.
‘The Earl of Berkshire was a man of peace,’ Arlington declared. ‘An envoy to the Dutch when we sought reconciliation. His efforts were scorned. Now he is dead.’ He stared at me like I was a Dutchman. ‘The Four Day Battle was no victory.’
He said it as if it was a great secret. Though instructions were issued to light bonfires and celebrate, every man in London knew we were annihilated. Rupert took half the fleet to Plymouth to watch for the French, rumoured to be heading for Ireland, leaving Albemarle to fight the Dutch by himself. It transpired the French had no intention of invading Ireland, an error attributed by some to Arlington and his flawed intelligence, the same network that said this man’s son was a traitor. The same network that condemned Edward Josselin to death.
Dowling stroked the dead man’s hair, a strange look upon his face, angry and sad at the same time.
‘James Josselin worked for me,’ said Arlington. ‘He was privy
to the most secret of intelligence and I trusted him.
He swore his allegiance too, Lytle.’
‘Why do you question my allegiance?’ I snapped, anger provoked. Little good ever came of giving it voice, but my mouth was busy. ‘I pursued Wharton to St Albans. I killed him when I thought he endangered your life.’
Arlington smiled. ‘I am happy to hear you confirm your loyalty.’ He placed his hands behind his back and leant forward. ‘You will go to Essex,’ he said, daring me to protest. ‘Withypoll will go with you as far as Colchester.’
So that was it. The thin, puckered face of the man who sat next to me at dinner formed before me, the grating sound of his shrill voice echoing in my ear. He said 1666 would be a sickly year, a year when the plague would slither out of London to wreak its evil upon other towns and cities. London was free at last, like a great old bear, beaten to its knees, bloody but unbowed. The worst was over, the Pestilence gone, in search of new feeding grounds, bounteous and plentiful, and Essex was where it went, Colchester the worst afflicted. Arlington sent us back to Hell.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because that is where James Josselin fled,’ Arlington replied. ‘To Shyam, where none will follow.’
‘Where is Shyam?’
‘Shyam is a small village,’ Dowling spoke up. ‘Where the plague has chosen to make its home. Three hundred people lived there before the Pest began its killings. They have closed their boundaries and allow no man in nor out.’
‘You are well informed, Dowling,’ Arlington noted approvingly. ‘The Reverend of Shyam persuaded them all to stay, so as not to infect
other villages to the north and east. Any man that ventures within its boundaries is obliged to remain until the plague is gone.’ He gazed admiringly into the gloom. ‘What a man he must be, that influences men to lay down their lives for others, especially the rude sort of fellow that lives in such places.’
‘You want us to go to this Shyam?’ I exclaimed, aghast.
Arlington nodded. ‘To fetch James Josselin. Alive.’
Withypoll sat on the table, grinning with all his sharp teeth. He was sent to Colchester; not a much better prospect, but he survived the plague once already. He clearly believed himself immune to further infection.
Arlington’s eyes were unrepentant. He did not expect us to return. If we did, he would kill us later. I looked to Dowling. His face was set, hard as stone.
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘We will make preparations.’ Preparations to flee, for nothing would entice me eastward.
Arlington pointed to Josselin’s dead body, mouth open, dull eyes staring at the ceiling. ‘First you will dispose of that, and dispose of it well.’
He nodded at Withypoll, who stretched his arms wide and yawned. ‘Tomorrow you take them to Whitehall, so they may see the scene of Berkshire’s murder.’
Withypoll nodded, like he had it already planned.
Arlington headed for the door. ‘Fail and you will both rot in Hell,’ he called over his shoulder as he left the room. Withypoll followed with languid stride. Josselin’s finger rolled gently off the table and landed on the floor with a soft thud, coming to a rest next to my heavy heart.
I thought I left such villainy behind on my way to becoming a
happily married apothecary. Instead I cut off the tip of a man’s finger and faced a journey back into the Hell of plague. I escaped Death last year. To court him twice was madness.
Josselin stared at the wall with dull grey eyes.
‘What now, Davy?’ I said at last.
‘God will guide us,’ he replied. With less mischief than he had done thus far, I hoped. The grey pallor painted upon Dowling’s craggy face betrayed uncertainty of faith. I had never seen him so undone.
‘What shall we do with the body?’ he asked, picking at the bindings about the dead man’s hand.
I was sick of bodies.
‘I know a place,’ I muttered. ‘I used to work here, remember?’
Chapter Three
Comets are to be observed; usually they produce such effects as are the nature of Mars and Mercury, and there signifies Wars, hot, turbulent commotions.
Jane’s green eyes burnt into my cheek as I entered the front door and removed my jacket. The tip of her finger stabbed into my midriff when I forgot to shake the dirt from my shoes.
‘It’s dark,’ she snapped. ‘Why are you returned so late? You said it would be a dull affair.’ She stood upon her tiptoes and tried to sniff my breath.
She meant the wedding, I realised. ‘So it was,’ I answered. It seemed so long ago now. I couldn’t recall the last time I returned so late, so sober.
She directed her attentions to Dowling, who followed me over the threshold. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to pay my regards,’ he replied slow, unable to stop staring.
‘I haven’t seen you in a while.’
I attempted to lose him twice upon the way home, but he wouldn’t be deterred.
‘Aye, well here I am,’ she frowned, perplexed, sniffing the air again. ‘Now tell me where you have been so late?’
My mind’s eye still watched Josselin’s body slowly sinking into the water. I had little appetite for one of Jane’s sermons. I needed a drink and headed for the kitchen in search of ale. I wondered how to tell her of our journey east. ‘Come, and I will tell you.’
‘You plan to talk to me?’ she declared in mock astonishment, following with quick steps. ‘Why so wormy-tongued? I have no dinner for ye, and no speech will persuade me to cook at this late hour.’
I wasn’t hungry. ‘We have been set a puzzle that may be beyond our capacity to resolve.’
She snorted. ‘If that were a reason for talking, we would spend every evening at the table.’ She scowled at Dowling, who would not take his eyes off her. ‘Will you have an ale, butcher? You look like you are about to faint.’