‘Where?’
In the pit by now. I eased into the house, determined to talk where she might grieve in private. I climbed the same stairs we climbed that morning, she following.
Once she entered the room she slammed the door closed behind and stood afront of me, legs apart, fists clenched. ‘I asked you where?’
‘I found him at the Cripplegate Pesthouse,’ I said. ‘You said he was fevered. So he was.’
She clasped her hands to her mouth, misunderstanding what I tried to explain. ‘God have mercy! We must make sure he is well cared for.’
I caught a breath and felt my face flush. ‘I am sorry, Liz, but James died.’
She didn’t weep, nor scream, nor indeed react much at all. Her face paled from white to whiter, and the fingers of her clasped hands clawed at each other.
‘Well then,’ she whispered. She hesitated a moment. ‘Thank you for coming, Harry.’ She shivered, opened her mouth and closed it again, then walked quickly from the room, taking a piece of my pickled soul with her. I trudged home, exhausted and miserable.
My plans to go straight to bed were thwarted. Jane stood afront of me so I couldn’t pass, dress billowing as though fanned bysome gust of fury emanating from somewhere betwixt her legs. She held the remnants of my burnt clothes up against my nose. ‘Where have you been?’
I attempted to squeeze past, but she threw herself against the wall to prevent it. In her rage she forgot to maintain the distance between us and I felt the wetness of her breath against my throat. I stopped trying to escape and moved so she breathed against my mouth. ‘Bedlam,’ I confessed.
Her arms fell to her sides. ‘Bedlam?’
‘Aye.’
‘And did you see the pit there?’ she hissed.
‘Aye, I did.’
‘Full, was it?’
‘Aye, full,’ I said. ‘You can smell it this side of Cripplegate.’
‘You can smell it this side of
Watling Street
!’
I placed a hand on her shoulder. An image of the black bubo upon the dying woman’s neck shaped itself unbidden in my mind, swollen and growing still. ‘Aye, terrible to behold.’
She threw my hand away. ‘You walk into the midst of it and bring it back with ye.’
I stepped quickly past. ‘I burnt all my clothes and smoked a pipe.’
She pushed me in the back as I headed towards the kitchen. ‘Why go there at all?’
‘The King,’ I answered.
‘The King,’ she repeated slowly, ‘asked you to go to Bedlam?’
‘In a manner.’
‘What manner? The King left London two weeks ago.’
‘Lord Arlington then,’ I conceded.
‘Lord Arlington told you to go to Bedlam?’
I edged about the kitchen table so it stood between us. ‘He told us to find out who killed Thomas Wharton. His wife told us to go to Bedlam,’ I lied.
‘What is at Bedlam?’
‘A lot of lunatics and a pest pit.’
‘What is that to do with the death of her husband?’
‘That remains to be established.’
‘The King is at Hampton Court,’ she repeated, fury mounting within her slender frame.
I took a step towards the stairs. ‘Aye, Jane, so he is, and we are still here in London where I will likely remain until I find out who killed Thomas Wharton.’
‘Harry.’ She seized my jacket and gazed into my eyes. ‘We must leave
soon
, afore it is too late.’
I pulled away. ‘Then I must find out who killed Wharton soon, afore it is too late.’ I was tired, too tired to talk. I ignored the hurt I saw in her face and hurried upstairs afore I said something even more loathsome. I crept into bed feeling like the Devil himself.
Just as my eyes closed so Dowling’s fist pounded at the door.
Chapter Eight
ARGUMENTS OF DEATH
When the five hylegical places at the hour of birth, at time of decumbiture of the sick, as also the Lord of the ascendant, are oppressed, judge death immediately to follow.
We heard the crowd before we saw the light. A hundred men at least. Half the gathering stood back, watching, torches held high. The other half formed a tight,
In the pit by now. I eased into the house, determined to talk where she might grieve in private. I climbed the same stairs we climbed that morning, she following.
Once she entered the room she slammed the door closed behind and stood afront of me, legs apart, fists clenched. ‘I asked you where?’
‘I found him at the Cripplegate Pesthouse,’ I said. ‘You said he was fevered. So he was.’
She clasped her hands to her mouth, misunderstanding what I tried to explain. ‘God have mercy! We must make sure he is well cared for.’
I caught a breath and felt my face flush. ‘I am sorry, Liz, but James died.’
She didn’t weep, nor scream, nor indeed react much at all. Her face paled from white to whiter, and the fingers of her clasped hands clawed at each other.
‘Well then,’ she whispered. She hesitated a moment. ‘Thank you for coming, Harry.’ She shivered, opened her mouth and closed it again, then walked quickly from the room, taking a piece of my pickled soul with her. I trudged home, exhausted and miserable.
My plans to go straight to bed were thwarted. Jane stood afront of me so I couldn’t pass, dress billowing as though fanned bysome gust of fury emanating from somewhere betwixt her legs. She held the remnants of my burnt clothes up against my nose. ‘Where have you been?’
I attempted to squeeze past, but she threw herself against the wall to prevent it. In her rage she forgot to maintain the distance between us and I felt the wetness of her breath against my throat. I stopped trying to escape and moved so she breathed against my mouth. ‘Bedlam,’ I confessed.
Her arms fell to her sides. ‘Bedlam?’
‘Aye.’
‘And did you see the pit there?’ she hissed.
‘Aye, I did.’
‘Full, was it?’
‘Aye, full,’ I said. ‘You can smell it this side of Cripplegate.’
‘You can smell it this side of
Watling Street
!’
I placed a hand on her shoulder. An image of the black bubo upon the dying woman’s neck shaped itself unbidden in my mind, swollen and growing still. ‘Aye, terrible to behold.’
She threw my hand away. ‘You walk into the midst of it and bring it back with ye.’
I stepped quickly past. ‘I burnt all my clothes and smoked a pipe.’
She pushed me in the back as I headed towards the kitchen. ‘Why go there at all?’
‘The King,’ I answered.
‘The King,’ she repeated slowly, ‘asked you to go to Bedlam?’
‘In a manner.’
‘What manner? The King left London two weeks ago.’
‘Lord Arlington then,’ I conceded.
‘Lord Arlington told you to go to Bedlam?’
I edged about the kitchen table so it stood between us. ‘He told us to find out who killed Thomas Wharton. His wife told us to go to Bedlam,’ I lied.
‘What is at Bedlam?’
‘A lot of lunatics and a pest pit.’
‘What is that to do with the death of her husband?’
‘That remains to be established.’
‘The King is at Hampton Court,’ she repeated, fury mounting within her slender frame.
I took a step towards the stairs. ‘Aye, Jane, so he is, and we are still here in London where I will likely remain until I find out who killed Thomas Wharton.’
‘Harry.’ She seized my jacket and gazed into my eyes. ‘We must leave
soon
, afore it is too late.’
I pulled away. ‘Then I must find out who killed Wharton soon, afore it is too late.’ I was tired, too tired to talk. I ignored the hurt I saw in her face and hurried upstairs afore I said something even more loathsome. I crept into bed feeling like the Devil himself.
Just as my eyes closed so Dowling’s fist pounded at the door.
Chapter Eight
ARGUMENTS OF DEATH
When the five hylegical places at the hour of birth, at time of decumbiture of the sick, as also the Lord of the ascendant, are oppressed, judge death immediately to follow.
We heard the crowd before we saw the light. A hundred men at least. Half the gathering stood back, watching, torches held high. The other half formed a tight,
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