‘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.
Chapter Five
So it warily adviseth them of great care and provision for their personal safeties in all troublesome engagements.
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?’